Jim Gorman's Brand

 Extracted from People's magazine, 1 January 1923, pp. 3-45. Title illustration omitted.

Jim Gorman's Brand

By J. Allan Dunn

Author of “The Crater of Kola,” “Sand,”

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KING BRADEY, MAN OF WEALTH, SWOLLEN WITH POWER, DID NOT THINK THAT JIM GORMAN COULD STOP HIM. FOR A WHILE IT WAS A NASTY MIX-UP, CALLING FOR A BIG FIGHT—TO A FINISH.

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CHAPTER I.

JIM GORMAN closed the thick volume and exhaled a long breath of relief after the concentration with which he had been studying it. At the same time he scratched the back of his head, sure sign that he was still busy on a problem, and placed the book on a pile of others similarly bound in sheepskin, law books all, part of the equipment of the sheriff’s office.

For a few minutes he looked out of the window to the busy street of Vacada, seeing through its present bustle the cow town he had first known.

Then the thoroughfare had been only a dusty trail between a scattering collection of shacks—mostly saloons, with a general store and two blacksmithies.

Now there were stores of pressed-brick and plate-glass frontage, the trail was a macadam highway, the sidewalks cement. There were schoolhouses and churches, a fire department and various lodge rooms. Banks and restaurants and hotels, garages, a steam laundry. Most marked change of all, as many women as men on the streets.

The old Vacada had nearly passed. Downtown, where the land sloped to the creek, where the cement sidewalks changed to wooden sections, stilted to the level, with steps leading up and down, there was the huddling remnant of the cow days which some thought had been the heydays of the place.

Here were the false fronts of the saloons, now titled cafés, displaying soda water and dispensing stronger liquors in back rooms where gambling tables still attracted and dance halls extended their mock gayety. Such things—since the State had elected to leave the enforcement of the Volstead Act to the federal authorities—Gorman, as sheriff, merely regulated.

Sooner or later they would die with the growth of the town. But there were still cattle ranches beyond the suburban irrigation farms that had so swiftly increased Vacada’s population and prosperity, and none knew better than Gorman how a rider, confined on ranch or range for weeks with scant outlet for his red-blooded, healthy vitality, is bound to cut loose when he comes to town with his pay check and finds nothing more exciting than an ice cream soda or a censored moving picture.

Gorman had lived too long on the range himself not to be tolerant of such reckless spirits. He wanted to let the inevitable changes and constrictions come about gradually with the shifting generations, not to be abruptly strangled.

He knew the sterling qualities that had lived beneath the rough displays, the chivalry toward women, the sense of squareness and fair play, the admiration, of true womanhood and manhood and the hatred of anything yellow and underhanded. Sometimes—as this morning—he doubted whether such virtues existed as strongly now. Assuredly vices still flourished that were not all born of the saloon and the card-table.

He rose slowly to his lean height and called to his deputy, busy in the rear, cleaning up the vacant tier of cells. Under the new sheriff, the jail was far from being overcrowded.

“Put them law books on the shelf, Pete,” he said as the deputy appeared, an ancient whose bowed legs proclaimed the rider as well as his leather skin and the sun-puckers about his faded but still keen eyes. “I’ll be away till middle of the afternoon, likely.”

“Might as well take a real vacation an’ go fishin’. Feller cu’d be deef, dumb, blind, lame an’ ha’f witted an’ hold down this job, way you’ve got the town. Dull an’ dead as ditchwater.”

“Find frawgs in ditchwater, Pete, an’ you never kin tell which way a frawg’ll jump or how fur.”

Hope gleamed in the faded eyes of Pete as he watched his chief buckling on his cartridge belt and adjusting the long, blue sixes that had earned him long ago the title of Two-Gun Gorman.

“You goin’ frawg huntin?”

“Frawg or toad. Pete, what d’you know about this new foreman out to the B-in-a-box?”

“Not much. Name’s Moore. So he ses. Some ses he’s a dago. Dark complected as a greaser. Come from where he don’t tell, three months back. Bulls around down in the dumps by the bridge when he comes to town. They say he’s mighty pally with King Bradey out to the ranch. Cook shack ain’t good enough for him. Eats his meals in the ranch house, ’long with King an’ his niece. I’m bettin’ he ain’t popular with her. She’s runnin’ with Bud Jarrett over to Two-Bar. He’s some different from Moore. Same feller brought in the note for you this mornin’ when you was out to breakfast. Me, I’d figger Moore a toad. You after him?”

“He ain’t the biggest toad in thet ditch, Pete.”

“Meanin’ King Bradey?” Pete whistled. “He’s some toad.”

Gorman nodded. The deputy regarded him wistfully as he buckled on his spurs and donned his Stetson. He wished that the sheriff would tell him what was in the letter brought by Bud Jarrett and if it had anything to do with the present excursion. But he knew his own one fault—garrulity—and he said nothing. More than once this habit of gossip, creeping upon him with age, had almost upset the sheriff’s plans.

Gorman knew exactly what Pete was thinking. He had given him something big to chew on and to keep him quiet. The deputy was not going to risk idle talk about King Bradey.

Bradey was a very big toad in not so small a puddle. More cattle buyer than raiser, he controlled large tracts of land and big herds, constantly changing. More than that, he practically controlled county politics so far as they had any thing to do with his own advancement or that of his friends—also the discomfiture of those who were brave enough, or foolish enough, to oppose him. Rich and powerful, big of body and suave of manner was Bradey, whose first name was often used as his only one and in the manner of a title. He had come into the county twenty years before to take up an ordinary holding. Somewhat suddenly he showed evidences of a healthy bank account and began to buy three things, land, cattle and men. He was still acquiring the last two.

If Gorman was out after the King, the deputy told himself, and a gleam came into his eyes, there would be something doing. King Bradey lived a good deal like a feudal baron. He had ten big ranches rolled into one and a hundred riders in the slackest of seasons, besides ordinary ranch hands to carry out his royal bidding.

“You find anything in them books?” Pete asked as he placed the volumes of law on the shelf.

“Not much, Pete. I’ve got a fair idea of justice, it seems, but a man can easy wade too deep in that sort of liberry.”

“I’ve offen thought law books was writ an’ printed for the feller who’s in trubbel, rather than t’other end to.”

“I’ve kinder thought the same way myself, Pete. Speshully what they call the civil code. So long.”

He went out to the back where his horses were stabled. Motor cars he ignored save in case of necessity.

“Car’s all right for speed on fair-to-good roads,” he declared. “Go across lots with ’em an’ you’re liable to git inter trubble. I kin go on a hawss where a car ’ud be stalled or turnin’ summersets, an’ I kin think while I’m ridin’, ’thout botherin’ with holdin’ a guidin’ wheel an’ shiftin’ gears.”

He saddled his black mare, who whinnied at him and thrust her velvety nose against him. She was not only his chum but his confidant. Her nervous ears had heard many secrets that the wind blew away and the mare never disclosed. It was the old habit of the range rider and his mount, the discounting of loneliness and solitude, still clinging to Gorman, utilized by him when he was riding free to assemble and concentrate thoughts and plans.

He loped out of town at an easy gait, nodding to many men, doffing his sombrero so frequently to women until at last he rode bareheaded until he reached the outskirts of Vacada. He passed by fenced lands where the water in the irrigation ditches matched the Arizona sky, looking like wide strips of turquoise between the green of alfalfa or the chocolate brown of cultivated loam where orchards were coming lustily along. There were neat houses here, windmills, shade trees, little gardens. A pleasant, prosperous country, yet Gorman sighed his relief when they left the last of it behind and reached the wilder region of sage, greasewood and mesquite that rolled in a great plain toward foothill and mesa.

The mare quickened her pace, seeming to greet the tang of spicy herbage brought on the unchecked wind as eagerly as did her master. They left the road and started across the open to where the Calista range rose, leisurely at first, in great mounds that halted at a steep escarpment, the cliffs cut deeply here and there by ravines, some of which were box cañons while others led to the true slopes of the range, timbered with piñon and juniper, like a mantle that had slipped down from the barren crests. Here and there a creek came lunging down. Now and then it was only the dry bed of one, an arroyo.

Gorman rode steadily toward a known objective, making the best speed for the distance and the type of terrain. Surely, as the sun mounted toward noon, they approached the southern border of the B-in-a-Box property. To the west lay the smaller holding of Bud Jarrett of the Two-Bar.

He had eaten a hearty breakfast early that morning, and, true to old-time range custom, he did not expect to touch food again until nightfall. But there was grain for the mare in a bag inside the slicker tied back of his saddle.

When at last they began definitely to climb, his face, that had been stern and a trifle grim with his thoughts, relaxed.

“I reckon, lady,” he said to the mare, “that some of the old-time sayin’s is crosscuts to the law. Possession is nine points in this proposition, to my mind. If this dark-complected hombre, name of Moore, actin’ for King Bradey, runs off these folks an’ destroys their property, which he appears aimin’ to do, ’cordin’ to this letter, they’ll have to enter a civil suit to recover damages. The way King Bradey sits pritty with the gents who apply the law, they’ll be gray-haired an’ toothless afore they git a decision, which may be agen ’em. If they don’t die of starvation an’ hard luck in the meantime, havin’ lost all they own.

“I reckon we’ll have to try an’ show Moore the foolishness of his ways. Mebbe King Bradey. He ain’t actin’ modern. He’s usin’ old-time methods an’ he ain’t choosin’ the best kind. But they’re the kind we sabe. I wonder if her man’s showed up agen?”

In a little while they reached a spring that was fenced in. Gorman’s eyes grew cold.

“I wouldn’t wonder but this was some of King Bradey’s doin’, lady,” he said. “He’s runnin’ with a high hand lately. Playin’ the dooces wild. This is open range an’ we need a drink. Also others. We’re goin’ to git it.”

He tied the end of the rope he still carried—though not for the old usage—fastening it about the wire close to a middle staple of the three-wire fence, taking dallies about the saddle horn. A word to the mare, a swift series of jumps and the staple came out. In a little while he had a section of the fence flat, save for the posts. He led the mare to the clear water and, when she had drunk daintily and wisely, gave her her oats and lit a cigarette, sitting under the shade of some willows.

He took a letter from his pocket and read it over. It was the note brought by Bud Jarrett, addressed to him as sheriff.

Dear Sir: Eight or ten days ago King Bradey’s foreman rode up and gave us notice to leave. Sam told him he wouldn’t, that it was open land that we had taken up and that they had no right to fence in the spring in the meadow. He had two men with him and he said if we didn’t get off by ten days he’d drive us off. The place is all we’ve got and we’ve put our money into it, what we have.

Sam left two days after and said he would see you, but he hasn’t been back and I’m afraid something has gone wrong. I want to tell you the truth—that Sam used to drink sometimes and stay away a spell, but I don’t think he would do this time because one of the children is sick which is why I have had to stay, though I would have been afraid to leave the place the way things are.

I am sending this by Mr. Jarrett. He wants to help me, but there are reasons why I don’t want him to get in wrong with Mr. Bradey, as he surely would, so I am asking you to do something to protect our rights. Maybe Sam will be home by to-morrow, but I don’t suppose they will come alone.Faithfully yours,

Elizabeth Jordan.

P. S.—The foreman said he’d burn down the house. He said we stole the logs.

“That,” said Gorman aloud, as he folded up the note and put it away, “is what I’d call a mighty sensible letter for a woman in her fix. I’m sure hopin’ Sam got home, for he don’t appear to have bin in Vacada. An’ this habit of fencin’ in public springs is a foolish one.”

He had finished his cigarette at the start of the letter. The mare was cleaning up her oats when he saw her ears prick forward at something concealed from her view, and from Gorman’s, behind the willows. She did not move, but stood motionless as a dog on point. Gorman got to his knees with the litheness of a wild cat rising from a crouch, gently parting the boughs. The lightly balanced leaves were shifting in the breeze and gave him a better chance.

Two cowboys were riding in toward the spring. It was plain that they had seen the broken strands. They had reined up, discussing it. One of them drew a gun, broke it, inspecting the cylinder, snapped it back again and they both rode on. They stopped again, looking about them, their figures clearly mirrored in the water that showed them, from the saddles up, in reversed image. One of them caught sight of the glossy flank of the mare and pointed just as Gorman stepped through the willows.

“You ridin’ for the B-in-a-Box?” he asked pleasantly.

“What the hell’s that to you?” retorted the one who had drawn his gun, his hand falling to the butt of his weapon. He was a young chap whose burned face had not seen much of a razor as yet, for lack of necessity. The other was much older, lean like Gorman, with a hatchet face and a look of habitual repression, of a certain craftiness.

His hand fell on the gun arm of the younger, who shook it off angrily as he spoke again.

“You pull down this wire?” he demanded.

Gorman started to roll a cigarette, using both hands, performing the trick deftly and instinctively, his eyes off the job, centered on the boy.

“I sure did,” said the sheriff. “You put it up?”

“I’ll show you what I put up,” said the lad. “Stick up yore——”

He whipped the gun from his holster and then stared foolishly, with fallen chops, at a strained wrist and trigger finger and the widening ripples where his weapon had plunged into the spring. Gorman’s bullet had struck it fairly on the cylinder. Now the sheriff stood imperturbable, his finished cigarette in his mouth, feeling for a match. The movement of his hands had been too fast for look to register. The elder man spoke angrily to his companion.

“You damned young fool, don’t you know who that is? Sheriff Gorman!”

“I—I didn’t see no star,” stammered the nonplused cowboy.

“You c’ud see he was packin’ two guns, cudn’t you? Ain’t many men doin’ that round here, outside of Two-Gun Gorman.”

“All right, Dave, that’ll do,” said Gorman. He fancied that the man was overzealous and anxious in his enlightenment of the other. “I asked you a question,” he went on. “You ain’t answered it. You put up this wire?”

“Nope, we didn’t.” Gorman noted a certain furtive anxiety in the eyes of Dave and thought he knew the reason for it. He resolved to probe it later.

“I see you’re ridin’ wire this mornin’,” he continued, “and the kid’s hawss has got Bradey’s brand—one of ’em. Lazy-H. So I reckon you came this way to see was the fence up. It ain’t. More’n that, it’s comin’ down.”

“Bradey claims this land,” said the boy, recovering a little of his poise.

“I’ll do the talkin’. Curly,” said Dave.

“I’ll do it,” said Gorman. “This ain’t Bradey’s land, never has bin, an’ he knows it. Outside of that, it ain’t fenced. If King Bradey figgers he don’t have to prove or put up fence to use land you tell him from me he’s mistaken. I’ve bin busy in Vacada lately, cleanin’ up. I aim to handle the county the same way. You tell Bradey he’s holdin’ his reins too high for safe ridin’.

“This is public land. I’m lookin’ out for public rights an’ privilege. Also I take this personal. I may want to water here agen. I don’t aim to pull wire every time my hawss needs a drink. You two git busy.”

“At what?”

“I ain’t got much time to waste this mornin’, Dave Lorton. You sabe what I mean. You two nip that wire clear—pronto. You can notify yore foreman to come git his posts later.”

“I ain’t yore deputy,” grumbled Dave. It was clear he hesitated between Gorman and the wrath of Bradey when he knew his wire was down.

“You ain’t likely to be, Dave. You an’ me might have some other connection a’most as close.”

The long shot told. Gorman knew of Dave Lorton and his reputation as a brand-doctor, a fakir of other people’s bands with a skilfully applied iron. He had vanished from the county five years before under a cloud. Now, it seemed, he had come back in Bradey’s employ. The sheriff noted that he carried no running iron. Just now he was riding fence for repairs. He had some slight notoriety as a gunman, but it was plain that he had no desire to try his skill against Gorman. And it was almost equally certain to the sheriff that Lorton was again under a cloud and feared Gorman’s knowledge of it.

“How long you bin workin’ for King Bradey, Dave?” snapped Gorman, his tone official.

“Three months,” answered Lorton with a measure of defiance.

That probably meant he had arrived with Moore. Gorman nodded.

“Light,” he ordered briefly. “Cut that wire. You, Curly, you kin git yore gun after the fence is down.”

They both glowered, but the sheriff’s face was stony. His cigarette was still between his lips, but his hands had dropped to his gun butts, signal for prompt action. He watched them as they sulkily dismounted and set to work. Once he looked at the sun and bade them hurry. Both men had wire cutters and the job did not take long, despite one lame wrist. Gorman waited while Curly fished his gun out of the water and started to dry it off.

“Fix that later,” he said. “You’re apt to be too quick with that Colt, youngster. You keep it for coyotes an’ sick cows after this. I’m goin’ to post this spring open, officially. Now you two hombres vamos.”

They rode off at a lope toward a draw that led to the B-in-a-Box fence.

CHAPTER II.

Gorman mounted the mare and pursued his way. He did not imagine that Bradey’s foreman would attempt to carry out his threat against the nester’s family until this, the tenth day, was well along, but he decided to take no chances and pushed his mount at good speed.

The sheriff’s face was stern. He had entered office on the sudden death of the last incumbent of his office at the urgent request of certain prominent citizens and the force of circumstances crying for a strong hand. The late sheriff had been murdered and Gorman had brought the man in. Though the dead officer had been a personal friend of Gorman, the latter had recognized his weaknesses and he had found a lot of work to do. Six months had caused an exodus of crooked gamblers, horse thieves and cattle rustlers. It had cleaned up Vacada to the pitch desired by its citizens and Gorman had begun to consider his work done. He was already contemplating resignation and the election of another sheriff. One matter only had delayed him, the appearance of a suitable candidate. Those in the field were politically affiliated and Gorman did not believe that a public officer should have his hands tied as these men were shackled.

A new era was coming to the county, a new type of citizens. Between whiles, such men as King Bradey made all the hay they could, but Gorman had not had the time to look much into Bradey’s operations, nor any suggestion that it was especially necessary—until to-day. Now he resolved to investigate before he tried for the retirement and the vacation he had dreamed of, hunting, fishing, prospecting, a visit to his old-time partner, now married and in another State.

Bradey’s herd was always large. He needed plenty of range and water, and it was evident that he considered himself strong enough to take and hold where and when he pleased. He had been doing it unchecked and he was getting bolder.

“We got to stick to the job a while longer, lady,” Gorman said to the mare. “An’ so long as we hold it down, it don’t look as if there was room enough in the county for Bradey an’ me, not the way he’s tryin’ to handle things. Looks to me’s if this new foreman of his who eats in the ranch house an’ is so thick with his boss must be eggin’ King on. Looks to me as if there was somethin’ likely to be stirrin’, lady hawss, somethin’ stirrin’!”

In his clear, bright eyes there appeared a similar but stronger, fiercer light than that which had shone in the gaze of his deputy. The stern aspect of his face changed to a more contented one. Action, the war of his wits against a man of Bradey’s caliber, the prospect of trouble, these were things to which Gorman’s adventurous spirit reacted strongly. He no longer regretted his deferred holiday.

He had a hunch, a tingling hunch that ran along his veins like fire and ice in swift surges of sensation; that the affair of the nester was only the opening of troublous times. The closing of the spring, the advent of Moore and of Dave Lorton, brand-doctor, appeared more than accidental. If, as he began to suspect—secretly to hope, with the instinct of the born hunter—King Bradey was a crook on a big scale, a man without principles, a masterful bully using all weapons, all tactics, to pile up his fortune—his occupation as cattle dealer, also cattle raiser—gave him unbounded opportunities.

“I sure,” said Gorman softly, “will have to look up Bradey. The way he’s actin’ don’t look good to me. Git on, li’l hawss.”

The mare responded. They had reached the mouth of a draw, a wide V narrowing into the foothills, coming out on a plateau at the foot of the first true cliffs of the range, a place of abundant feed, of water and some timber, not a large holding, but a desirable one for a man with small capital. It was here that Sam Jordan had built him a log cabin, fenced his pastures, tilled his soil and started to establish his rights as a homesteader—thereby acquiring Bradey’s wrath by preëmpting ground on which the B-in-a-Box steers had always been turned for fattening before shipment or other sale.

Gorman passed some cattle grazing here and there. They had various brands, but they were probably all Bradey’s. In his purchase of the five ranches that made up his main ranch, King Bradey had acquired the registered brands that came with them. B-in-a-box was his own special totem, but he had the right to use the others. The steers he bought carried their late owners’ marks. The conglomeration provided a fertile field for crookery, if Bradey wanted to acquire cattle otherwise than legally and cover up his operations. The sheer extent of his private range made investigation difficult. Add to that the acquisition of a clever brand-faker, like Lorton—there might be others in King’s employ equally efficient—and the opportunity was patent.

These things Gorman pondered over as he rode. He had had no recent complaints of cattle stealing in his own county, but it was possible that Bradey might have confined such affairs, if he was so implicated, outside of the State. The line was not far away. One of his ranches ran up to it. Mexico also was within a day’s drive—or two night drives, with hiding out by day. It might well be.

It was the arrival of Dave Lorton, together with Bradey’s last aggressive move, that opened the eyes of Gorman to such suspicions that were strong enough to determine him to engage in close observation of Bradey and his methods of dealing in cattle.

A torn-down fence, the wires evidently not old, gave him notice he had reached the line of the Jordan’s claim. This looked as if the nester’s cattle might have been driven off until he inspected the cut ends of the wire and saw that the severance was at least several days old. The act was simply a notice of trespass on the part of Jordan, a usurpation on Bradey’s side, in all probability. Gorman had not had time to examine the patent books, but he felt sure that this land, although used for years by Bradey, had never been proved up by him. It was likely that Bradey figured he could even control the land office commissioner.

One thing he had overlooked, the appointment of a man as sheriff without an election, therefore beyond Bradey’s manipulations, and a man of Gorman’s type, fearless, efficient and naturally resolute in the enforcement of law and order and the upbuilding of the community. The governor, by whom Gorman had been given office, was, the sheriff knew, not to be influenced by men of Bradey’s type. He had not sought his office, any more than Gorman, the office had come to him in a time of stress and the governor had run out of public spirit and won by a small majority.

Gorman’s eyes grew steely again as he marked the wanton destruction of the fence. Since it had not been repaired, he feared that Sam Jordan had lost nerve, or lacked it, and had sought comfort in liquor, though he was not sure of that premise. Anyway, there were the wife and the two children, one sick. Her appeal was going to get action.

Jarrett had helped her, but Jarrett was palpably handicapped by his feelings toward Bradey’s niece, as Mrs. Jordan had hinted in her note. If he interfered Bradey would put a crimp in his aspirations.

Gorman knew Jarrett. He knew him for a capable rancher, though inclined to be reckless, to show a wild streak now and then which might be only the gameness of a spirited colt—Jarrett was about twenty-four or five, the sheriff imagined—rather than a streak of “bad-mania.” Jarrett had bucked the tiger more than once in Vacada’s “Brisket”—cowboy synonym for “Tenderloin.” He had on occasion drunk more than was good for him. He had made roughhouse, he had “shot up” the lower end of town. All these had been holiday outbursts, between whiles he ran his ranch efficiently.

He was the kind of man, Gorman believed, who would settle down with the right sort of woman and growing responsibilities and he wondered what sort of a girl the niece of King Bradey was.

To his knowledge he had never seen her. Undoubtedly she came to town, but, previous to his holding office, Gorman had seldom visited Vacada.

It was quiet on the plateau, save for the incessant whirring of cicadas. There was little air and the heat turned the air above the hot ground to shimmering waves of vapor, making the outlines of the rim rock uncertain.

Then the mare pricked her ears again inquiringly toward where the cabin of the Jordans stood. Gorman knew her hearing far keener than his own. There might be several reasons for her action, but, with his mind centered on the one object, Gorman applied the hint to his own project.

A little stream, bordered with willows, overflow of the disputed spring, worked its diverse way through the plateau and disappeared down the draw up which he had come. The trees gave him cover, but he wanted a lookout and left the mare ground-anchored while he climbed the near-by cliff, selecting a cleft for easier going and to screen him from observation.

From the top he saw the log house, with its chimney at one end, its patch, of flower garden and vegetables about it, small, lacking many things, but a home.

In the doorway was the figure of a woman with a child in her arms, another one holding her apron. Facing her were three horsemen, one in advance of the rest. Gorman’s mouth tightened. Moore had come early.

Suddenly a fourth horseman came into sight, urging his mount to a gallop, charging up and sliding from the saddle while the pony’s hoofs plowed to a standstill. This man gestured at the one Gorman believed to be Moore. The newcomer he placed as Jarrett.

“Good boy,” he said softly. “He’s got guts. But he oughtn’t to have got off his hawss.”

He stayed to note only one thing more, the course of the creek that made out of a gully behind the cabin. His trained sight marked the way by which he might get to the back of the shack unobserved. The element of surprise was always advantageous against odds. That Moore was ready to be nasty Gorman did not doubt.

Suddenly the woman, answering a motion of Jarrett, retreated into the cabin and shut the door. Jarrett stood blocking it.

It was not very far to the shack. Gorman made it on foot, leaving the mare where she was. Bent almost double, he achieved the gully, came up through the vegetable patch between rows of corn to the back door. It was unlatched. The woman, bewildered, frightened, had left her rear defences open.

“Her man ain’t home,” Gorman told himself as he softly opened the door and entered the main room, the full width of the house, combined living room and kitchen. There was a partition to his right with a door in it. Behind this the woman seemed to have taken refuge.

“You’ll put me out of the way before you git in.”

That was Jarrett.

“We can do that. Jake’s got you covered. We’re comin’ in. You quit meddlin’ in other folks’ affairs an’ save yore hide.”

That would be Moore. Hesitating to commit murder with the woman and her children for witnesses. But with the whiphand. One of them could ride round to the back and enter as Gorman had done. Only, it would be too late now. Jarrett’s opportune arrival and his parley had blocked Moore’s plans, unconscious of it as the foreman was.

“I’d mark that feller for a malo hombre by his voice,” Gorman confided to himself. “He’s a wolf.”

Both guns out, he was stealing toward the door when the woman came out of the room, carrying one child as before, the other following. They were dressed for leaving. She had given up.

Gorman wheeled and shook his head at her to stop her outcry.

“I’m the sheriff,” he said in a whisper. “Got yore letter. Here it is. Where you goin’?”

“I’ve got to go,” she said wearily, her voice spent so that it barely carried, her eyes red with watching and weeping. “They’ll kill him if I don’t. They’ll run us off anyway and burn the house.”

“Not this trip, marm. You’re stoppin’ right here. You go back in that room.”

Moore’s voice broke in, harsh and snarling.

“I’m through foolin’, Bud Jarrett. You bin takin’ up too much of my trail lately ennyhow. I’m giving’ you till I count five to clear.”

It was going to be murder after all. Gorman knew the note of killing in a voice. They had had Bud covered from the moment he made the break of alighting. He had wisely not attempted force against the odds, but he played a losing game with a man like Moore, unscrupulous to use any advantage.

The reason for it flashed over Gorman. Moore gave the key as he spoke of a crowded trail. He ate in Bradey’s ranch house, at table with the niece. She was Bud’s sweetheart and Moore desired her.

If he killed Bud he would have to make a clean sweep of the job. He would do away with the witnesses, burn the shack with the bodies inside.

Gorman was not an alarmist. He had seen many foul things done and this one was imminent. If Moore sought excuse to get rid of his rival, here it was. The two riders with him would be bound to silence by implication.

All this came and passed like lightning in his brain. He had not moved two steps toward the door. Moore was just counting “One.”

“Shoot!” said Jarrett. “If you’ve got the nerve! Shoot, you rotten coyote!”

“The guts, he’s got ’em!” murmured Gorman happily.

“I’m goin’ to!” answered Moore, his voice a rasping purr of content. “Two.”

Gorman’s hand was on the latch. He wished he was sure of Jarrett’s position. There was no keyhole. He darted aside to a window, looked through the side of a red curtain and sized up the situation. Jarrett might think him another of the B-in-a-box men, try to grapple with him.

“Three.”

The young rancher was standing up straight, a brave man in front of a cowardly firing squad. He was a little away from the door.

“Got to chance it,” said Gorman to himself. His lean face was stern again, but it held contentment. The door opened inward.

“Four.”

He flung it wide, sprang out.

“It’s Gorman, Bud!” he cried as he side-stepped, and both his guns barked at once.

One cowboy flung up an arm from which a gun dropped like a streak of light in the sunshine as he turned sidewise and rolled from the saddle. His horse stood snuffing at him. This was the one who had covered Jarrett.

Other shots blended in, with spurts of pale flame, with heavy reports, the vapor and stench of exploded gases through which bullets tore their way. Moore’s horse reared high, shielding him and Gorman’s missile struck it in the chest. It pawed the air, toppling backward, Moore sliding from the saddle seeking cover.

Jarrett staggered back to the door, but recovered himself and fired in a duel of shots with the third rider. His second or third shot got his man in the shoulder, close to the neck, the blood spurting. The cowboy wheeled his horse, then lost control and the pony, wild at the shooting, galloped off. Jake’s pony broke away with reins wild, started to cross the creek and got hung up in the willows.

Moore’s horse rolled on its back, legs striking out wildly. Moore fired once over its belly and Gorman’s hat sailed off as the sheriff pulled trigger, shooting with his left hand, the most convenient.

The bullet went through Moore’s uplifted wrist. He let out a yell of rage and then the dying horse fell over on him, clipping him to the ground with its body.

“You’re a bum shot, Moore,” said Gorman coldly, as he stepped round the animal. “Had a chance at me an’ missed. You won’t git a second. You hurt bad, Jarrett?” he called over his shoulder.

“No. Think it hit a rib an’ glanced off. I’m bleedin’ some, but I ain’t hurt to speak of.”

“More bum shootin’, Moore. You was plumb anxious to put him out of the way, warn’t you?”

Moore’s teeth were sunk into his lip to suppress a groan. He glared up at Gorman, speaking with an effort.

“Talk big to a man in my fix,” he said. “That’s easy. You-all started the shootin’.”

“I suppose you were bluffin’ with yore countin’ five? Bud, can you help me git the hawss off him?” He picked up Moore’s gun as he spoke, though the man’s wrist was out of commission.

They heaved the dead brute over and Moore lay there for a moment. His legs had been pinned from the hips down and the feeling was out of them. The cowboy, Jake, called from the ground.

“Goin’ to let a man bleed to death, damn you?”

“Cover him, Bud. Moore, you better tie up yore wrist.”

He went over to Jake. He had been shot through the lungs. Gorman knelt beside him and made swift examination.

“You’ll pull through, with luck. Not the kind you deserve. Now then, look out.”

He gripped the man in the “fireman’s lift,” lifting him easily and carried him into the shack.

“One of yore visitors hurt some, Mrs. Jarrett,” he said. “I’ll fix him up an’ send in for him later. We've got a hospital over to Vacada now, though he ought to be in jail.”

The woman looked pitifully at the man who had been joined against her.

“He’s only a boy,” she said.

It was true. Bradey seemed to have young riders in his outfit, lads who would follow easily, craving excitement, boys started wrong and going swiftly along the wrong trail.

“Put him on my bed,” she said.

“Better strip off the cover. He’ll muss it up.”

But she insisted on leaving the bed as it was and Gorman opened his clothes, baring the small hole through which the air sucked and blood oozed.

He told the woman what to do temporarily until a doctor arrived and left her administering to the wounded man with a tenderness that made Gorman shake his head as he walked outside.

“Ain’t that plumb like a woman?” he said to himself.

Moore was sitting up, his wrist bound with his bandana, his dark face sullen.

“You want to remember you started this, sheriff,” he blustered. “We gave this woman proper warnin’. You killed my hawss an’ likely killed one of my men. Jarrett there, wounds another, hornin’ in on some one else’s bisness. This here is King Bradey’s property an’ those folks is trespassin’ besides stealin’ lumber.”

“Whether this is Bradey’s land or not, you can’t dispossess ’thout due process of law,” said Gorman coldly, “an’ that through my office. King Bradey ain’t high card round here—not even trumps—when he plays agen public rights. I’m tellin’ you to tell him that if this woman’s bothered the least way, her fences touched, her water closed off, there’s goin’ to be hell poppin’.”

Moore sneered and said nothing. Streaks of scarlet stained his gun hand.

“You’re usin’ the wrong methods, Moore, if you’re in the right. If you’re wrong an’ I’m lookin’ up the patents on this land right away, you’d better quit. This is nineteen-twenty-two. The Apache Kid is dead. Bad men don’t git by enny more.

“You’re a bad man. You think you’re a curly wolf, but you’re plain bad—so bad you’re rotten. Don’t forgit I was back of that door a spell. You was aimin’ to kill Jarrett an’ you wudn’t have done that an’ leave witnesses. Now, the Vigilante days is over, but there’s a whole lot of respectable citizens that ’ud Ku Klux Klan you inter a suit of tar an’ feathers an’ leave you squintin’ up a rope, if they thought you was plannin’ what I know you had in yore mind to do. You’d be prayin’ for me to have you in jail an’ keepin’ you safe if ennything like that happened, but there’s times when I’m out of town an’ that might happen to be one of ’em.

“There’s yore man Jake’s hawss, in the willers. You fork it an’ go home to King Bradey. Tell him the minnit he steps outside the law he don’t rank enny higher or lower than enny other hombre in this county. I’ll look out for Jake.”

“We ain’t askin’ you to look out for our hands. You an’ yore law. We’ll send over for him. An’ you’ll find Bradey’s got somethin’ to do with the law.”

“Not the law I’m actin’ on. Jake stays here. I didn’t tell the woman at first becos I didn’t figger she’d be anxious to bother with a cuss who was helpin’ to rob her—mebbe worse—but he ain’t fit to be moved. An’ she’s sorry for him. Somethin’ you couldn’t sabe, but she is. He stays. I don’t know how her husband is goin’ to feel erbout it—if he ever shows up.”

Looking keenly at Moore, Gorman fancied the foreman blanched. Certainly the pupils of his eyes contracted. It might have been the pain of the wounded wrist.

“You got the best of it this trick,” he said. “Gimme my gun.”

Gorman broke it, ejecting the shells. They had all been discharged. He looked at the gun, a six with a bone handle on which four notches had been cut. Moore’s swarthy face turned almost black with suppressed fury as the sheriff meditatively fingered the gun before handing it over. It made his resemblance to a negro startling, though Gorman did not think him colored. Possibly part Indian.

Moore holstered his gun, clumsily took bridle and saddle off the dead horse, and, half carrying, half dragging the saddle by the horn, went to where the pinto stood tangled in the willows, too wise to try and extricate itself. The foreman of the B-in-a-Box made hard work of it mounting and hauling up the spare saddle in front of him. Gorman watched him grimly while Jarrett’s eyes blazed.

“I’d have got him if his hawss hadn’t reared,” he said. “I’d do it right now if you hadn’t busted his wrist. He shot me. Damn him, he was jest itchin’ to kill me! I figgered you’d take him in, sheriff.”

Gorman shook his head slowly.

“Got nothin’ on him that they cudn’t git out of with Bradey’s pull. You see I did start it. They’d claim they were here peaceable an’ were jest bluffin’ you, or kiddin’ you. That’s the reason they’d give for not surroundin’ the cabin. Real reason was Moore was out for you. You spoiled his play. He aimed to run a woman an’ two kids, one of ’em sick—off her property an’ burn the shack. Brought two erlong case of interference that he didn’t expect. He’s a brave hombre, is Moore. I’ll bet his spinal cord is yeller as a sand lily.

“I reckon this gits you in wrong with Bradey, Jarrett. But you sure coppered his play. How’d you happen erlong so handy?”

“I was keepin’ an eye on the cabin from my place with field glasses. When I saw them ride up an’ you not on hand I started out.”

“I see,” said Gorman. “Bud, you got a phone to yore place, ain’t you? Will you git in touch with Doc Marshall an’ tell him you’re talkin’ fo’ me? Ask him to come up soon’s he kin to treat a man shot through the lungs—some internal hemorrhage. One of the kids is sick, too.”

“Sure I will. You figger they’ll leave her alone for a spell?”

“Yep. I’ll be hearin’ from Bradey an’ we’ll have a show-down. How’s that side of yours?”

Jarrett gave a pull at his shirt where it had stuck to his scathed rib and grimaced.

“Fresh water an’ a plaster’ll cure that. Did you see ennything of Sam Jarrett in town, sheriff?”

“No. I made inquiries. Don’t believe he ever got there.”

For a moment the two exchanged mute question with their eyes. Neither spoke. The wife of the missing man had come to the door.

“He’s getting mighty feverish,” she said.

“Jarrett’s going to phone for the doctor. Keep those cold compresses on him. I’m goin’ to open up yore spring an’ repair yore fence, Mrs. Jordan. The doc’ll take a look at yore kid when he comes.”

“It’s just a bad cold, I think. Sheriff, I don’t know how to thank you——”

“I’m glad of it, marm, fo’ I’ve done nothin’ out o’ the line of my duty. It’s Jarrett needs the rewards. He’s got in bad with Bradey.”

Jarrett had already mounted and was on his way to his ranch and the telephone.

“I know it,” said the woman. “And I’d have been the last to bring that about. Though I don’t believe Bradey’s been over and above friendly to him at any time, least of all since Moore got to be his foreman.

“You see,” she went on, “his niece—that’s Mary White, who ain’t any blood relation to him, being the child of his wife’s sister—is his ward and she ain't of age. I don’t know just what hold that gives him over her, but he’s always discouraged her marrying, though lately Moore’s been trying to do some courting and Bradey don’t stop him.

“Mary has been mighty good to us—one way and the other. She’s always riding over with something for the children that we couldn’t afford. Sometimes she’s met Bud Jarrett here lately. That’s how he happened in to take you my letter, thinking he might find a note from her. Bradey’s told him to stay away from the B-in-a-box. They make a fine couple. She’s just what Bud Jarrett needs, some one to steady him, and he’s a fine man in the makings.”

Gorman listened silently. He admired Bud for braving Bradey’s additional wrath, but there was no doubt that rivalry spurred the action.

While the woman chatted he selected tools for opening the spring and mending the fence. He expected the woman to say something about her husband any moment, fancied she was holding off because of vague suspicion that she would not allow crystallization, the same suspicion he already held, that Sam Jordan’s children were fatherless and his wife a widow.

“I haven’t had time to round up yore husband,” he said at last, ready to leave for the spring. “But I’ll do that soon’s I get back to town.”

“Thank you, sir.” She tried to keep her eyes brave, but the water crept into them and her chin trembled. “He may have taken one drink to forget his troubles and that led to another. It don’t take much to start him off and he’s been mighty discouraged of late. But it’s hard for me to think he stayed away deliberate. He was awful fond of the children. And the last thing he told Moore was that he’d be waiting for him day and night and if they thought they were going to run him off they were mistaken. He meant it, too. He was nigh desperate.”

“H’m! Well, while we’re turnin’ him up, don’t you worry none. When the doc shows he won’t want to move that man Jake. Movin’ him might kill him. Would. I’m no doctor, but I know erbout gun wounds. If he dies it may complicate matters. If he pulls through an’ stays here while he’s mendin’, it’ll help warrant you peace an’ quiet. He’s a sort of hostage, sabe? You tell yore husband that.”

“If he comes.” She wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron.

“By the way, you got a gun? Or did Sam Jordan tote erlong all yore weapons?”

“All we had was a Colt’s. Sam took that. He aimed to borrow a rifle in town.”

“I’ll leave you one,” said Gorman. “I gathered Moore’s an’ Jake’s. I’ll leave you Jake’s in case you think you’d like it. But you ain’t goin’ to be bothered. I give you my personal word on that.”

“Thank you, sheriff. I—indeed I don’t know how——”

Thanks, especially from a woman, embarrassed him.

Gorman escaped. He whistled and the black mare came up the gully. But the sheriff did not proceed directly to the spring. Instead he gave the mare free rein and rode hard to Jarrett’s ranch. Bud was at the phone.

“Got the doc yet?” asked Gorman.

“Not yet. Hardly got here. This is a seven-party line.”

“Let me have it then. Something I forgot.”

The something was a request to Doc Marshall to bring along, not merely his medico’s kit, but all the groceries he could crowd into the little flivver roadster with which the physician performed miracles of automobilism.

“You follow the Dogleg Crick road, doc,” said Gorman, “an’ you’ll find the road leadin’ up past Bud Jarrett’s of the Two-Bar. It’s about three mile past his place. Log cabin on top the plateau. You can’t miss it. An’ have the groceries charged to me.”

He had noticed a larder lamentably bare inside the cabin. There was probably no money in the house, perhaps none available. Sam Jordan would have carried the cash. The place was plainly furnished and scrupulously clean. The Jordans were struggling to make good and, until the little ranch was in full running order with established crops, money was likely to be scarce.

CHAPTER III.

Later that afternoon, riding back to the county seat, Gorman stopped again to water the mare at the spring where he had encountered Dave and Curly. The fence was still down. Arrived at Vacada, he wired to the commissioner of the general land office at the State capital an inquiry concerning certain descriptions of the southeastern corner of the B-in-a-box holdings. This filed, he returned to the jail and found his deputy yawning in the office over the local newspaper.

“Ennythin’ stirrin’?” Pete asked his chief eagerly. “The town’s fit to be buried. Plumb peacable. Nothin’ in the paper.”

"I’ve got a job for you, Pete. I want you to go up to the Jordan cabin, next to the Two-Bar. There’s a woman there Bradey’s foreman tried to run off this noon. Bud Jarrett and me happened erlong. There's a dead hawss up there you’ll have to bury an’ you may have to help nurse a young buckaroo by the name of Jake. He’s got a weak lung.”

Pete’s eyes sparkled but he affected disgust.

“You git all the fun an’ I wipe the dishes,” he said. “Well, I guess I kin handle a few chores an’ amuse the cuss. Do I get that buckskin of yores?”

“Yep.”

“When do I start?”

“You’ve started.”

“Wait till I ile my gun. What is she—widder woman?”

“Her husband ain’t bin seen since a week or more. I’m goin’ to try an’ git some trace of him down town. I want you should see she ain’t annoyed, Pete. I’ve got a hunch her husband ain’t goin’ to be back in a hurry.”

Pete nodded. There was no fear of his gossip on that detail. And he was exactly fitted for it. Not too old to be spry—too old to sleep heavily, Gorman was assured that no one would interfere with the cabin, night or day, with out danger of flying lead and Pete was a dead shot, if not quite so quick on the draw as he once had been. Gorman added a few instructions about the spring and the fences.

“You might find out what stock they’ve got, Pete—or what they used to have. I reckon they were driven off when the wire was cut.”

“Then they’re likely gone,” said Pete wisely.

“Mebbe. You git a good description of them. An’, if she asks you ennything erbout some groceries, you kin say you understand her old man ordered ’em sent up from the store two or three days ago an’ this was the first chance they had to make delivery. No sense in her worryin’ too much, one way or another. She’s got a sick kid, too.”

“What do you think I am—the Red Cross?” grinned Pete as he buckled on his gun. Is this visit of mine offishul?”

“You go as deputy sheriff.”

Pete took his star from his pants pocket, burnished it with breath and the sleeve of his shirt and pinned it prominently on his suspenders.

“I’m off,” he announced. “Forgot to tell you King Bradey run in erbout an hour ago. I put it on the pad. Said he’d like to see you in the mornin’. He was comin’ in erbout eleven o’clock.”

“Soon as all that?” said Gorman to himself as Pete passed out to the rear. Ten minutes later the old rider went up the street on Gorman’s second string horse, born to the saddle, years younger than when on his feet.

Gorman sat down at his desk and arranged a few papers. Presently he picked up one infolded in a wrapper. It was a farm paper, famous in the East for its wide circulation and conservative statements. It had the annual habit of including an extra subscription for every one renewed, to be sent to some friend of the regular reader. An acquaintance of the sheriff, remembering a trip West and certain courtesies, had extended the yearly privilege to Gorman.

He invariably found some interesting articles, though the general run of farming information had little to do with Western methods. He was about to close the office and go to supper when some illustrations caught his eye. He read the text attached to them with increasing interest—once—then twice again. His eyes narrowed and kindled behind the half closed lids. His whole face lit up, lips tight closed, little muscles showing in the jaw, the nostrils dilated. There was something about it of the hawk about to swoop, ready to leave its eyrie and take wing, or of some predatory animal to whom the scent of worth While quarry comes faintly down the wind.

“If that’s so—and it’s easy tested out—if that’s so,” he said aloud, “and there's enny crooked work for’ard, I’ll set a trap for them they’ll never git clear from till they’re behind bars.

“Funny no one ever thought of it before. An’ it took an Easterner to discover it. A man who keeps a dairy an’ peddles milk. I don’t know how practical it ’ud be on a big scale, but it’s sure got tremendous possibilities. As for what I’d use it for, I’ll eat horn-toad stew if ennything cu’d be better.

“Don’t suppose there’s another copy of this paper comes inter the county. That’s plumb lucky, too.”

In his enthusiasm he read the article through once more before he locked the paper up in the safe and went out to supper. He passed the doctor’s flivver and the physician hailed him and parked at the curb.

“Everything O. K., doc?” he asked.

“I guess so. The child will be all right in a day or two. The chap you perforated ought to pull through. He hasn’t lived long enough to entirely poison his system with rotten liquor. He’ll be telling all his secrets before long. Really ought to have a nurse. Man, if possible.”

“I’ve sent Pete.”

“Good. I lied about those groceries, knowing you. Said the grocer asked me to bring ’em along and that was all I knew about it. Jim, you look as if you’d discovered a new trout stream.”

Gorman grinned. He and the doctor had fishing as one of their mutual interests. Each liked to steal away when there was a chance and creel a limit of rainbows. The physician always had a steel rod in his machine.

“I’ve just discovered a new bait, doc. Read erbout it, rather.”

“Keeping it to yourself, eh?”

“It wudn’t interest you, doc. It ain’t fish bait. Sort of cow bait, you might call it.”

The doctor drew down his shaggy brows.

“Keep it, then, you pirate. I caught an Eastern brook this afternoon on my way back. In Dogleg Creek. Two pounds and three quarters. I was going to get the chef to broil it for supper at the hotel and I was looking for you to eat half of it, but if you’re going to be so blamed stingy——”

“I’ll be there, doc. And I’ll let you in. I’d like a little professional advice on this thing ennyway.”

“I’m not a vet.”

“Know ennything about dermatology?”

“I should.”

“That’s what I want, then. How soon do I arrive?”

“Thirty minutes.”

The flivver rolled on and Gorman went back to the office to retrieve the paper.

“I might need an expert witness or two if this pans out,” he reflected. It’s a bit new, but it’s sure convincin’.”

The telephone rang as he closed the safe for the second time and he answered it. It was a girl’s voice, clear, fresh, but incisive, though the speaker seemed hurried.

“This is Sheriff Gorman?” it inquired.

“Yes’m.”

“This is Mary White.” The sheriff’s eyes widened a little. “I’ve just talked with Mr. Jarrett.”

“Yes’m?”

“I am coming into town to-morrow with my uncle, King Bradey. Can I arrange to see you?”

Gorman whistled softly.

“I’ve got a date with yore uncle at eleven,” he said.

“Oh!” There was silence for a second or two.

“I must see you. Afterward. Where?”

“Ladies’ parlor, Maverick Hotel, noon sharp, or name yore own time. I’ll see we ain’t interrupted.”

“I can arrange that. I shall have lunch with a friend and—I’ve got to ring off.”

The last sentence was whispered hastily. Gorman could imagine the girl hanging up the phone quietly and stealing swiftly from the instrument.

“Moore snoopin’ round, I reckon,” he reflected. “Well, he’ll eat with a fork for a while. Maybe it was her uncle. If she’s seen Jarrett recent they’ve bin meetin’ somewhere close to Bradey’s ranch house. I wonder what’s in the wind? It’s a cinch King ain’t entirely got her confidence, enny more than he has mine.”

He put the farm paper in his pocket and started for his supper with the doctor. The trout and sundry trimmings demolished, they went to the doctor’s living quarters behind his office, a big room with a fireplace, shabby but preeminently comfortable furniture, some sporting pictures of fish and game and many books, shelved to the ceiling.

The doctor produced cigars, a water pitcher, glasses and a bottle.

“Nothing contraband about this, Jim,” he said. “You can drink it legally. It ain’t prescription rye, either. Bottled in the bond—a present from a grateful patient out of his own cellar.”

“Said patient having once run a hotel with bar privilege? I used to be better acquainted with this brand once, doc.”

“You’ve got a half interest in it, while it lasts. Here’s to your cow bait.”

Gorman laughed, knowing the doctor’s avid curiosity where he thought sporting lures were concerned.

“That was a snap name, doc. But I want yore opinion. Read this. Is it practical?”

The other adjusted his glasses and read the article through carefully. He put down the paper.

“Thought you were out of ranching for good, Jim?”

“I’m still interested in cattle, especially when they git in mixed herds.”

“Of course; stupid of me. This is practical enough. Better make tests in sufficient quantity to back up a presentation though. I’ll help you. It’s a darned interesting scheme. New application.”

“That’s all I want to know. Thanks for helpin'. I’ll tell you what I’m after. It’s just a hunch, but she’s sure growin’ like a yearlin’ ca’f on spring grass.”

He talked for the best part of an hour, the doctor listening closely, occasionally passing the bottle and the cigars. It was not the first time the sheriff had consulted the physician, friend of twenty years, whenever his problems approached medical jurisprudence. Moreover, the doctor was also the invariable physician to the county coroner. There was no doubt as to his discretion or his wisdom. He liked to consider such cases as if they were chess problems, helping the sheriff to anticipate possible moves. Long before Gorman took office they had discussed famous trials and cases in the making.

“I wouldn’t wonder but what you’re right, Jim,” he said thoughtfully, when Gorman stopped talking. “It’s more than a hunch, putting two and two together. But you’re after a whale of a fish and it won’t be easy to land him. But that idea of yours isn’t bait, it’s a landing net, providing he’s feeding.”

“I’ve got an idea about the bait,” said Gorman, “but it’s a bit hazy. I’ve a notion it’ll develop a bit ter-morrer. Now I’ve got to go downtown an’ see if I kin pick up somethin’ erbout Sam Jordan.”

“Expecting to?”

Gorman shook his head.

“Not much. I don’t believe he ever reached town. But I will—sooner or later—one way or another.”

“Alive or dead?”

“Yep.”

“Go to it, Jim. If you’re right about Bradey? And there’s any way I can help you?”

“Thanks again, doc. I’m glad there are no strings on me. He sure can pull a few himself. But, if I get a line on him, I’ll land him.”

“I believe you, Jim. How would you describe him, Jim. Kingfish?”

“Nope. There’s a trout out in California hits him better. Cutthroat variety.”

“H’m! A trout’s a game fish, Jim. Bradey’s the river hog variety, if only for what he tried to do to the Jordan woman to-day.”

Gorman said good night and made a round of the saloons, dropping in as casually as his official character permitted. By midnight he was certain that Jordan had not been in that end of Vacada, for over a month. He had a good many reliable sources of information, and he exhausted them.

In the Last Chance he encountered Dave Lorton, in company with the rider called Curly. The youngster flushed at sight of him. Both had been drinking, but Dave showed few signs of it.

They were playing stud poker in the back room. Curly said something in an undertone and threw down his cards, shoving his chips over to Dave Lorton. The latter tried to keep him in his chair and then shrugged his shoulders. The boy came up to Gorman, his eyes flaming.

“You shot a pal of mine to-day,” he said thickly. “You got one of yore damned deputies herdin’ him right now. He won’t be long. Sabe? An’ if Jake goes west I’ll git you, if you packed four guns! You’ll see me through smoke!”

CHAPTER IV.

The room had suddenly hushed. They knew the sheriff and they watched him. Gorman stood with his back to the bar, alert, his eyes steely. Crude whisky might spur Curly to foolishness. Gorman held a glass, half filled with mineral water, in his right hand and this he gave a gentle circular motion that made the liquid swirl. Involuntarily the rider’s eyes watched it. The sheriff might try to throw it in his face. He had heard of those tricks. Friendship challenged had sobered him a trifle, but his brain had little control.

“Son,” said Gorman, “yore pal had one of mine covered. I did what I reckoned the right thing. I sure admire yore attitude. Yore pal ain’t goin’ west. An’ he ain’t under arrest.”

“That’s a damned lie!” cried Curly. Gorman’s other hand was on the bar, the fingers idly drumming. In a flood of passion he forgot the sheriff’s reputation, his double-handedness. He figured to fire point blank at Gorman’s stomach from his hip. He could beat the splash of the water. It could not distract his aim at such close quarters. But he could not quite keep his glance from the jiggling water. He did not know the trick, oldest of any sleight-of-hand diversions.

Murder-mad, he shot down his hand to jerk his holster forward and fire through its open end. The silent watchers tensed.

Faster than they could watch, before the youngster’s hand reached the butt, there came a gleam and the muzzle of Gorman’s left hand gun pressed into his stomach—hard—with an insistence that flashed a message to his brain—a message of death.

“Stick ’em up, you young fool,” said Gorman in a low voice, hard and cold as ice, his eyes boring through Curly’s, reaching the life instinct of preservation. “Stick ’em up!”

The boy obeyed, his face gray now, sweat on his forehead that came in a revulsion of relief. He was not to die and the fear of it had been sudden and sickening.

Gorman set down his glass and took away Curly’s gun.

“You ain’t fit to pack one,” he said. “That’s twice to-day you’ve been toein’ grave dirt. I’m keepin’ this. Don’t git another one. Dave, take this maverick home an’ educate him.”

Lorton got up and moved over to the humiliated Curly. The players resumed their games. The incident was over. Gorman shoved the Colt into his waist band.

“Better let me have the gun, sheriff,” said Lorton. “I’ll see he don’t git hold of it. I’ll buy it off him.”

“The gun yours?” demanded Gorman sharply.

“He loaned it to me,” said Curly sullenly.

Gorman saw Dave’s look of fury directed toward the other from the corners of his eyes, dulled instantly.

“Why?”

"Mine’s no good. Cuts lead.”

“You’ll bring it in to me just the same.”

“You ain’t got no right to stop a man wearin’ a gun at his belt,” said Lorton. He was trying to keep his voice level, but he failed quite to succeed.

“Want I should arrest him for tryin’ to disarrange my supper?” asked Gorman. His face had cleared and he spoke with easy good humor. “There’s a local law agen packin’ guns in town limits, but I ain’t enforcin’ it, so long as a man knows how to use one. I’m keepin’ this, Dave. That ends it. You stick to wire cutters for a spell, Curly, an’ limit yore hooch. I’ll tell you agen that yore chum ain’t under arrest.”

His eyes were friendly as he spoke. Curly felt their influence. He knew he had made a fool of himself.

“All right,” he mumbled. “Let’s go, Dave.”

The two left and Gorman went with them, watching them mount and ride off. He sensed the hostility with which Dave Lorton regarded him, the menace of a snake caught in the open. It was not part of the sentiment the brand-doctor had exhibited at the spring. It was a recent growth. And he pondered over it as he walked to his quarters over the jail and office.

One thing he had learned. That the riders of the B-in-a-box were acquainted with Pete’s presence at the Jordan cabin. They were keeping watch on the place. He was glad he had sent the deputy.

He looked at the gun he had taken from Curly. He was not satisfied with the idea that Dave wanted to save the cowboy the price of the weapon. Lorton’s interests were the kind to be self-centered. It was a Colt of thirty-eight caliber, long-barreled, a good enough weapon, but it had been misued in its time and was not new. There was a speck of rust on the barrel that had corroded into the steel so that it could not be removed, it had a slight dent in the sight and the rifling of the barrel was pitted. There was nothing about it that would make a man especially covet it for its shooting value.

Moreover Dave packed a gun of the same type as Moore and that of Gorman himself, probably of long ownership. He would not be likely to change it after long acquaintance with its weight and balance. More than likely Dave’s trigger springs were filed. It was possible that he was a fanner, using his thumb on the easy-tripping hammer.

Gorman put it away at the back of his desk drawer and locked it up. But he did not forget it.

He was in his office at eleven when Bradey’s big car rolled up. Bradey was driving and there was nobody in the tonneau. The cattle dealer came in with a genial smile, lighting a large and oily looking cigar. Gorman refused another, indicating his sack of tobacco. Cigars with him were for hours of special relaxation and this was not one of them. He asked Bradey to sit down and the visitor took a chair, filling it with his bulk. He was burly, inclined to a paunch, but his body was solid, showing strength. His square face was set for good humor, but the quality of it could not mask the meanness of his mouth or the hard, cold quality of his eyes, pale blue and closely placed. Gorman rolled and lit his cigarette, waiting for the other to speak.

“They tell me the jail’s empty, the town orderly and the county quiet, sheriff,” he said. “Does you credit. Sorry the peace was broken yesterday. You’ve spoiled the table manners of my foreman, and I hear Jake Davis is breathin’ through his chest. You sure mussed up my outfit.”

His tone and manner were forcedly jocular. Gorman was on his guard. He had expected blustering, this approach was more subtle, perhaps dangerous.

“There was another man got clipped,” he said.

The quick glare in his visitor’s eyes showed a temper close to the surface.

“That wasn’t your work,” he said. “That’s quite another matter, sheriff.”

I don’t agree with you,” said Gorman quietly but definitely. He was not in the mood to assume friendliness toward this man who must bear him ill will. “The man who did that was protecting the rights of a defenceless woman. I helped.”

King Bradey opened his mouth as if to speak and closed it with a snap.

“I don’t look at it in that way,” he said. “You believed you were carrying out your duty. This other interfering meddler acted without license.”

“Duty of every citizen to aid defense of property agen illegal entry an’ threatened force. Your men had no right there under enny circumstances, Bradey. This woman’s husband bein’ away might have made it look easier to the three you sent up, one to each kid an’ Moore for the woman, I suppose; but it don’t make it look enny better.

“I’ve had a wire from the land commissioner this mornin’. That land ain’t yours. That spring ain’t yours. Enny more than the one on the flat you fenced in. Wire’s down an’ it’s got to stay down. That woman’s wire has got to stay up and her cattle have got to be put back.”

The veins swelled in Bradey’s neck and forehead, but he gulped down his rising choler.

“My foreman may have misunderstood my boundaries,” he said. “I’ve always used that water on the flat—fifteen years. Fenced it to keep the cattle from miring.”

“Then you shu’d complete yore public spirit by puttin’ in a gate.”

“I’m not going to make any fuss over this matter, sheriff,” said Bradey, his voice a rough purr and his eyes cold as ice. “I might.”

“You might.”

For a few breaths they eyed each other. Bradey’s splay fingers worked slightly. The sheriff’s sinewy hand, on top of the desk, might have been made of bronze. The gaze held until Bradey rose.

“If you’re not inclined to be friendly,” he said.

“As sheriff I ain’t got enny friends. As a private citizen I pick ’em for myself.” Again the veins thickened on Bradey’s face and neck.

“You might have enemies,” he said.

“On’y way an enemy cud injure me is bodily an’ I’ve managed to take tol’able care of myse’f, so fur.”

“I hope you’ll always be as successful. I understand you took a gun away from one of my men last night?”

“A kid. He ain’t quite man-size. I’m bettin’ he’s a minor, or so close to it he oughtn’t to be allowed a weapon.”

“A rider carries a gun as a tool, sheriff. You ought to know that.”

“I’ve known murder committed with a pocketknife—a wrench—and a chisel.”

“I’m asking you to return that man’s property. You have no legal right to it.”

Gorman wheeled in his chair and took down a volume from the shelf.

“There’s the civil code,” he said. I’ve bin studyin’ it some. If you want to git that gun away from me, you go to it through the courts. Meantime, I’m keepin’ it. Possession, they say, is nine points of the law. I didn’t steal it. I may have misunderstood my rights, like yore men did the line of the B-in-a-box. I’m open to conviction—in court. As sheriff I impound guns when I see fit. Enny special reason you want this partickler gun?”

“I want it because you have no right to try and run things in this fashion.” Bradey’s face was getting puffy and mottled, his eyes flecked with red. “There is no value to the gun other than that the rider will have to buy another. Out of his own money. I look out for their interests.”

“He’s got another,” said Gorman. “I told him to bring it in.”

His coolness got beneath the other’s reserve.

“Because you are a pet of the governor you need not think your position unassailable,” Bradey stormed suddenly. Gorman got up in his turn.

“I’m closin’ this interview, Bradey,” he said. “You’re right in one thing. It don’t do for a man to overrate himself.”

“Why, damn you, what do you mean?”

“One thing I mean”—the sheriff’s voice changed—“and that is not to be cussed by enny man. You want to git that. You know where you stand about yore lines now. Better stick a blue print up in yore office at the ranch. But cussin’ ain’t permitted in here, Bradey.”

The cattle dealer glared, picked up his hat, and went out. Gorman watched him through the window, starting his car and slipping in the gears.

“I’ll have to arrest him for speedin’ if he ain’t careful,” he said to himself. “Now, I wonder what he came in for? To size me up? To play friendly an’ pull the wool over my eyes—or to get that gun?”

Presently he took down the telephone hook and called the Two-Bar ranch on the chance of finding Jarrett at hand. A Chinese voice answered.

“Misseh Jallett? He not come in jus’ now. If you like I give him message. Misseh Jallett he busy build gate in collal jus’ now.”

“No message,” said Gorman. He had wanted to warn Jarrett. He could do it later. It was clear that Bradey meant, in one way or another, to even matters with the owner of the Two-Bar for his interference and his shooting of Bradey’s rider. He had made no application for an arrest as Gorman had fancied for a moment he intended to.

Probably he did not court refusal. For his own reasons Bradey had wanted to smooth down the friction. The sheriff was inclined to think the effort one to erect a screen against any close interest at what might be going on at the B-in-a-box. He felt sure that Bradey would give orders not to trouble Mrs. Jordan. Equally certain that he meditated evil against the Two-Bar.

CHAPTER V.

At twelve o’clock he mounted to the ladies’ parlor on the first floor of the Maverick Hotel, asking the clerk to see that they were not disturbed, after he learned that the girl was waiting for him.

He liked the looks of her at first sight, not so much for the trim figure and regular features as for the frankness of the hazel eyes and the firmness of her mouth, well shaped, full enough for affection but indicative of both good humor and steadfastness of will and purpose.

She looked at him closely and then smiled as she offered her hand.

“You look just as I expected you to,” she said. “I’ve seen you before, of course, and I’ve heard a lot of you, but it’s not like meeting any one.”

Jim Gorman, when not in action on their behalf, was diffident with the other sex. He was woman shy. To Vacada he was a hopeless bachelor. To himself he was a man who had met many women who were not the right ones for him, but who sometimes seemed to think so—and he had never yet met the one he was sure he wanted. Yet he made a gallant speech.

“You look to me like Bud Jarrett was a lucky man,” he said.

The girl colored, but did not lower her eyes.

“I hope he’ll always think so,” she said simply. Gorman liked the avowal. Here was the girl for Jarrett, surely. He warmed toward her.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “I am a friend of Bud Jarrett. He did a fine thing to-day.”

“I must meet my friend soon,” she said. “Mr. Bradey may look for me there.” Her eyes thanked him for what he had said about her lover. “I hardly know what to tell you and what not to,” she went on. “I do not want to place myself in the position of being disloyal to my own, but there is no blood relationship between my uncle and myself. And—I expect to marry Bud Jarrett.”

“You play yore own hand, Miss White an’ make hearts trumps,” said Gorman. “You won’t go far wrong if you do that. I’m talkin’ from other people’s experience, but I’ve seen a heap of it. First an’ foremost, a man an’ a woman, when they’re sure of each other—I ain’t over handy at expressin’ myse’f at these sort of things, but you’ll git my meanin’—a man an’ a gal belong to each other. It’s their life ahead of the one that’s goin’ out, meanin’ their own generation. There’s not even blood ties in yore case. I ain’t figgerin’ you for disloyal. An’ I’m apologizin’ fo’ talkin’ in this way to you, as if I’d known you fo’ a long time.”

“It’s kind of you and I understand,” she said. “I’ve heard many things of you and I’ve always thought I’d like you for a friend. You say you are Bud’s. And he does not realize that my uncle, who is set against him, is really dangerous. He has a lot of power, a lot of influence, and I know that he means to try and separate us and also to do harm to Robert. All that he can. He pretends it is on account of Robert’s interference yesterday, but there are other reasons—and of course he was in the wrong himself there.

“He was not opposed to Robert in the beginning. Or he did not seem to be. But he has changed since that man Moore came, three months ago. I think that Moore has been employed by him some time, managing another ranch, in New Mexico. But sometimes he acts more like a partner. My uncle is my guardian. My mother left me fifty thousand dollars which comes to me when I am of age, fourteen months from now. Until then he has control of the investment. He has always given me a liberal allowance and he has made a great deal of money.

“But now—he seems to be indebted in some way to Moore. He has taken him into the ranch house to live. I hope I am democratic, but—Moore is coarse and I cannot understand why uncle gives him these liberties.

“Moore has tried to—make love to me. I suppose he calls it that. He pretends to want to marry me and uncle favors him. It seems impossible. I have not told Robert all of what happens—very little—he is hot tempered and there would be trouble. Moore brought several hands with him and they are a wild lot. The ranch is without discipline lately. I mean without any sort of ordinary regulations. They obey orders, but they do it—more as if they were all holding an interest as part owners than hired men. It’s hard for me to express myself. I’m not a snob, I’m a western girl—but there is too much license. It isn’t that they don’t treat me with respect—but you know how our riders usually treat a woman and these men are—not rude—but they look at me as if—as if there was some sort of joke between themselves. About their being hired.

“I am talking too long and, aside from what I wanted to see you about. Moore came home last night in an ugly mood. He had words with my uncle. I heard them threatening each other. Moore was savage at you for shooting him and my uncle told him to be careful. Moore said my uncle was making a fool of him.

“This was all before supper. When they came in to the table Moore was drunk. He wanted me to cut his meat up for him. He—he said I had better get used to it. I left the table. My uncle said something to him and he answered ‘I’ll handle her. She’ll gentle down when we get rid of that interfering fool.’

“Later on I went out—to meet—Bud. I dare not stay away long from the ranch house lately so he has been riding in, leaving his horse and meeting me in a little grove back of the house. There is a man named Dave Lorton who came with Moore, together with several other riders. He has been watching me. He is a gunman. I told Bud he must not risk coming on the ranch again. I was sure they would pick a quarrel with him and kill him.

“It is hard to explain, but the atmosphere lately is charged with something wrong—deadly. Moore grins at me in a way that is intolerable and uncle encourages him. It is growing impossible.”

"Why don’t you marry Bud? He’ll take care of you?”

“I am afraid. You haven’t heard everything. Bud told me what had happened at the Jordan place and how Moore had fired at him after threatening him. There are more than a hundred riders on the ranch. If I married Bud and lived on the Two-Bar they would do something desperate. Bud won’t run away—neither would I. Lately uncle has been drinking and when he does he is—he changes into something not quite human. He is strong-willed and it seems as if a devil took possession of him. Not raging, but cold and relentless. Sometimes I think he is afraid of Moore, in a way, but when he has been taking whisky I always think they are going to have a frightful quarrel.

“I made Bud leave early. When I went back I heard loud voices in the living room. There is a little slide where Pedro—he’s the house cook, puts the dishes through from the kitchen to his wife, Maria, who is the house keeper. There was no one in the kitchen. Pedro and Maria have a little cabin of their own and they were through for the day. So I listened.

"Your name was mentioned first. Moore wanted to know why uncle didn’t have you put out of office. He said that uncle had boasted of his owning the county and he said this was the time to show it. Uncle said that the only way to handle you was by smoothing things over and Moore said uncle was afraid of you, and that he wasn’t. He said you were only one man and it only needed one bullet.

“Uncle had been drinking. I saw the bottles and glasses through the little slide which I opened a little way.

“‘You leave the sheriff to me,’ he said. ‘It was a fool move to start anything in the county. We’ve cleaned up, or we can within a few weeks. This man Gorman is best left alone. I’ve done it, so far. This is my end of the deal and you’ll leave it to me.’

“They glared at each other and I thought there would be trouble right then, but Moore laughed and filled up his glass.

“‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you’re making a bad move in not getting him out of the way.’ I’m not pretending to repeat exactly what they said—only the general meaning of it.”

Gorman nodded. The girl was climbing in his opinion. Evidently she had been living under a strain that would have terrified most women, but she had kept not only her wits but her courage.

“‘I’m ready for the clean-up,’ said Moore, ‘after I’ve attended to two things. I want the girl and I’m going to get even with this lover of hers. I’d have got him out of the way to-day, but for that sheriff of yours interfering.’ ‘He can shoot too straight for you,’ said my uncle. ‘That’s another reason for you to leave him to me. As for Jarrett, your methods are too crude, Moore. I tell you you can’t put a man out of the way in this county and get away with it. There are other methods besides killing a man to get rid of him. Listen.’

“They lowered their voices while uncle did most of the talking. In a little while Moore laughed and pounded on the table.

“‘By God,’ he said, ‘you’ve got the brains, Bradey. I’ll take my hat off to you. We break him and add to our own pile. That suits me. I creased him in the ribs anyway.’

“That meant Bud, of course. ‘You can try your hand at Gorman,’ he went on, ‘but I’ll take a crack at that sharp-shootin’ sheriff before I quit the country. He’s dangerous, but this scheme of yours has got him whipped.’

“They had been almost ready to shoot each other before, but now they were close friends again. And they were both getting drunk—drunk enough, I mean, to bring all their viciousness out and to brag a little. Whisky doesn’t seem to affect them like it does some people. They can always walk and talk. It just makes them ugly.

“My uncle went to the telephone that goes to the bunk house and I heard him tell Dave Lorton to come over.

“Then Moore leaned over the table. His voice had changed. He seemed suspicious and inclined for trouble again.

“‘It’s understood I get the girl, without any damned nonsense,’ he said. ‘We’re splitting even and I’m not asking you for any accounting of her money. Fifty thousand dollars—and cheap at the price! She’s been acting up high and mighty with me lately, but I’ll get full value. Trust me for that. You’re not double crossing me there, Bradey.’

“My blood was cold and hot by turns, but you can imagine how I felt when my uncle laughed. ‘She’s the least of my worries, Moore,’ he said. ‘Glad to get her off my hands so long as it isn’t to Bud Jarrett. I’ll teach him to interfere in my affairs. As for the girl, she’s no kin of mine. She’s been a bit above herself with me for a long time. A taming will do her good. It will take her pride down a bit when she finds herself tied up to a breed.’ And he laughed until he began to choke. But he sobered up a little when he saw Moore’s face. I couldn’t, the way he sat, but it must have been angry.

“‘I want to tell you, King Bradey,’ he said, ‘that I’m prouder of my Cherokee blood than I am of the white that’s in me. If I’m a breed, I’m half again better than you are.’

“I was listening to my uncle practically selling me for fifty thousand dollars to a man who is half Cherokee Indian. Selling me for fifty thousand dollars! That is what it amounted to. I could hardly believe my ears, though, since Moore has been here, I have seen King Bradey in a new light. As if all the bad in him had worked out to the surface. I have never believed he really liked me. He has always been tolerant rather than kind with his smooth manner that I always felt was a mask.

“Of course they couldn’t marry me by force unless they drugged me and I should look out for that. But Moore would stick at nothing. He may be married.

“I only heard one thing more. That helped me. They talked about the time they expected to clean up. Bradey—I am not going to call him my uncle any longer—said that a man named Marshall would be out in the last part of September. It seemed that he is going to buy out the ranch and some cattle. The rest they will sell beforehand.

“‘I can wait till then,’ said Moore, ‘if the lady is willing to hold off.’

“I don’t know what I should have done. I had a mad desire to go in and face them, to tell them I had heard all they had said, but I saw that that would be playing into their hands. They might keep me a prisoner. Pedro and Maria would willingly be my jailers. She will not let me in the kitchen without my insisting on it. Pedro is even surlier. I have never been able to get along with them, since I came back from the East. And then I could not warn Bud or perhaps learn anything more of their plans.

“But I might have gone in, only I heard some one at the outside door of the kitchen. The men often came in that way and I knew this must be Dave Lorton. There was no light in there and I squeezed into a corner between a high cupboard and the wall. Dave came in and lit a match. My uncle heard him and called out to know who was there. Dave answered and Moore opened the door and came a little way into the kitchen. They did not see me, but Moore saw the light in the living room, through the slide and he came over and closed it. He passed so close to me I could smell the whisky on his breath. The light from the living room door threw the rest of the kitchen in deep shadow and he did not suspect anything. He closed the slide automatically, I think, without thinking much of what he did. He was chuckling to himself.

“‘We’ve got a job for you, Dave,’ he said and then they went in. I didn’t dare open the slide again after that, so I went up to my room and I got my gun. I don’t think Bradey knows I have one. It has been with me ever since.”

She reached inside the opening of her trim, mannish shirtwaist, and brought out a flat, businesslike automatic of small but quite efficient caliber. Gorman took it for a moment, looking it over and passed it back without comment.

“I don’t know why I never told him that I had it,” she went on. “I suppose at first I thought he would think me silly with foolish ideas about the West after my school. And afterward it must have been some sort of intuition that kept me from letting him know that I kept it and practiced with it when I went out riding. I am a pretty good shot. I can defend myself. I think that perhaps I never quite trusted him. I’ve often felt that I only knew the outside shell of him, polished up by himself to deceive. He always used to smile, but I don’t believe I ever read any real expression in his eyes.

“That’s all. Except that I am afraid. Bud won’t take the proper precautions.”

“Talked with him?” asked Gorman.

“No. I am afraid to use the telephone at the ranch. But I know that he will only laugh at me for being afraid.”

“How erbout yore own position—with Moore an’ King Bradey?”

“I am not goin’ to tell him about that. He thinks only that Moore pays me attentions which he knows are distasteful to me. But if I told him what I have told you he would make some hasty move and give them the chance they are looking for.”

“You don’t have to stay out to the ranch," he said. “Bradey can’t compel you to do that, even if he is yore guardian. Why not come in an’ stay with some one, the friend you are goin’ to lunch with?”

The girl shook her head, eyes steadfast, chin up and steady.

“No. There is no real danger to me for some weeks, until that buyer comes.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

“I’ll take the risk—with this.” She held up the automatic before she put it away. “If I leave, I won’t be in a position to find out any more about their plans against Bud.”

“Jest what is it you wish me to do, Miss White?” asked Gorman. Her face fell.

“Why—I hardly know.” It was plain that she had expected the sheriff to show some signs of intended action. Instead he sat looking at her steadily, though his eyes held the admiration for her pluck that his brain registered. Here was a girl in a thousand—a wonderful prize for Bud Jarrett. Gorman was beginning to wonder whether Jarrett would prove properly appreciative.

“I have been seeing old things over again differently the last few weeks,” she said, “I remember that Bradey never talked details of his battle deals with me and shut off all interest I showed in them when I knew a herd had been sold or partly sold or new steers had arrived. And, whenever new steers did come, it was always in the night. I asked him about that once and he only said that night travel was better for the cattle. But I can recollect plainly that he looked at me suspiciously.

“I’ve seen some of the men who came with Moore, at various times. They brought in cattle. And there was always more or less of a jest between them whenever I’d happen to ask where the steers came from. They always had an answer ready, but they’d look at each other knowingly and I knew they grinned behind my back.”

She paused for a moment and Gorman continued to look at her inquiringly.

“Well?” he asked.

“King Bradey has made a good deal of money. I don’t believe he has done it honestly. I believe that Moore was a partner with him in stealing cattle, buying cattle that he knew were stolen, anyway. Moore might only have been his foreman on this ranch across the state line, but he intends to share the profits when they make their clean-up in November. That is my belief. I don’t know whether you agree with me or not—I suppose I haven’t got any thing really definite. But they have tried to injure the Jordans, Moore acting for Bradey there. You prevented them. I thought you might like to hear that they are up to other rascality and that you might feel it your duty to prevent it.”

For the first time she looked at Gorman uncertainly.

“If we should pin ennything on Bradey erbout handlin’ stolen cattle, you’re li’ble not to see much of yore fifty thousan’ dollars,” said the sheriff.

“They don’t intend me to get it in any case. And it makes no difference to me—or to Bud. He’d rather have me without any money. I know that King Bradey is unscrupulous, that Moore is worse. And I thought, as a friend of Bud’s, as you said you were just now, aside from being sheriff, that I might interest you.”

She got up from her chair, her manner a little stiff, her eyes hurt. Gorman stood in front of her and at the look on his face her own lightened.

“I told you I figgered Bud Jarrett was a lucky man,” he said. “I’m plumb sure of it now. If you were a man I’d say you were white all through an’ square on all six sides. I ain’t handy at changin’ that inter a feminine compliment. It’s barely possible Bud don’t appreciate you properly. If he don’t, an’ you ever find it out, you send for me. After I’ve buried him I’ll see if there’s a chance for me. That may not strike you as much of a compliment, but you’re the on’y woman I’ve ever gone that fur with—or wanted to.”

He said it all with a laugh, trying to lighten matters for the girl’s ease, but there was a quality in his gaze that told her he meant much that his words did not necessarily imply.

“You’re a real she-woman,” Gorman went on. “That’s he-man translated. You’re plucky an’ you’re smart as a lawyer an’ I don’t have to tell you you’re sure easy to look at. I’ll have a talk with Bud. You’ve told me enough to confirm what I’ve been beginnin’ to suspect erbout Bradey an’ what I know erbout Moore—that they’re a pair of rascals. But we haven’t got ennything on ’em, as yet. On’y the Jordan dispossession. Bud seemed to think I wud act on that, but I wanted to give ’em a longer picket rope an’ hope they’d trip up.

“I’ve got a few things aside from what you’ve told me an’ I’m goin’ to git busy. I thought I’d have to set a trap or two, long distance, but they’ve done it for themselves, or they’re goin’ to. Occur to you what they meant by breakin’ Bud an’ addin’ to their own pile at the same time?”

She shook her head.

“I suppose I’m stupid, but it doesn’t, unless they mean to try and get hold of the Two-Bar for themselves. I know they say Bradey controls the courts.”

“When he can fix it so the court kin save its own face. An’, if they’re goin’ to git out end of September, they ain’t got time for ennything of that sort, disputin’ title or claimin’ it after they disposed of Bud. What they’re after is to run off his cattle, fake the brand—Dave Lorton’s a wizard at that sort of thing—an’ I reckon he’s bin doin’ it for Moore and Bradey right erlong—an’ then laff at Bud. Not much of a trick to change Two-Bar into a Lazy-H, one of Bradey’s own brands.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened with understanding. “Then you’ll tell Bud to ride herd or bring them in.”

“No. He ain’t got the feed to bring ’em in. Grass is gettin’ scarce an’ they want all they kin git of it right now. Ridin’ herd might, mean shootin’. They’ll have fifty men if they need it, to Bud’s four or five.

“They’ll be keepin’ tab on what he does with his steers from now on—if I’m right. It’s my scheme to bait that trap they’ve fixed for themselves with erbout thirty of Bud’s steers, left in a nice handy place for a run-off. Then we’ll let ’em do what they’ve a mind to.”

“But you said they would rebrand and laugh at us. And wouldn’t the cross bar on the H show fresh any way?”

“Not the way Dave’ll fix it—brandin’ with a blanket.”

“Then I don’t see——”

Gorman’s eyes gleamed.

"It ain’t' supposed to be wisdom to tell a woman a secret,” he said. “But you've sure earned it an’, if you gave it away it wud spoil everything for Bud an’ you. Not that I’m afraid of yore doin’ it. I’ve got some illustrations up to my office demonstratin’ what I’m goin’ to tell you, but it won’t take a minnit to explain the way it works, if you’ve got the time.”

She looked at her wrist watch.

“I’m to meet my friend in ten minutes,” she said. “Please tell me.”

“It’s plumb funny no one ever thought of it before,” he commenced. “In a way it’s right in line with police work——”

Her face glowed with understanding and approval when he had finished.

“I’ll introduce Bud to the idea this afternoon,” he said. “No tellin’ when they may start their tricks. Now I reckon you’d better go down first. Through the hall here and out at the ladies’ entrance. I’ll go through the office. Good-by.”

CHAPTER VI.

He strolled leisurely through the office and sat in one of the rocking chairs in the big front window. Pres ently the Bradey car passed up the street. Gorman was not inclined to discount Bradey too heavily, but the man seemed less dangerous since the girl’s revelation. It was plain that he was to a certain extent under Moore’s thumb. That he did not entirely enjoy his position was shown, Gorman fancied, by Bradey’s drinking. It might be one of his vices, but the sheriff was inclined to fancy it a sign of weakness and of worry. Still, he did not mean to count him too cheaply. Unless he had the goods on him, he would have a hard job to outwit Bradey. He was not likely to indulge in the rough end of things. His methods were less crude than Moore’s, but his whole nature was warped, selfish, sinister.

Gorman’s face was not pleasant in its sternness as he watched the car pass. A man who would deliberately sell his ward—for the price of her own inheritance—deliver her to a half-breed villain like Moore was not to be described in adequate terms. Yet Gorman held a fancy in the back of his head that Bradey was not actually contemplating this thing, that he had placed himself in a position with Moore from which he hoped to extricate himself by the use of his wits and the temporary stalling of the man he styled his foreman.

Moore, Gorman was inclined to think, was suspicious of Bradey and had come to the B-in-a-box more from choice than invitation, intending to stick close to Bradey until division was made. The sight of the girl had aroused his crude desire for her.

After a few minutes of quiet smoking, Gorman walked down the street to the drug store where he made some purchases, then to the newspaper office where he borrowed an article from the foreman of the composing room under seal of secrecy.

“Reg’lar detective stuff, eh?” asked the latter in a confidential whisper.

“Something like that. I’ll let you folks have the story hot off the griddle.”

He was not sure that the paper would be in favor of printing the story he intended bringing about. They were inclined to favor Bradey, but this they could not ignore. If things worked out there would be few papers that would not run the details.

Time was a strong element and he left the mare at home, hiring his usual car and speed out to the Two-Bar, not forgetting to buy some things at the grocery store for the Jordans. The last thing he did before leaving town and closing his office, bereft of Pete, was to take the farm newspaper from the safe and the gun that Dave Lorton had loaned to Curly from his desk.

He found Bud Jarrett with two of his men working on repairs to his corral, getting ready for the branding after the fall round-up. Jarrett did not seem surprised to see him. Gorman surmised that the girl had managed to telephone.

“I’ve a notion Bradey’s gettin’ ready to play even with you for showin’ over to Jordan’s,” said the sheriff. “Likewise Moore.”

Jarrett nodded. Mary White had conveyed the warning to him, and, when he tried to dismiss it, being young, sure of his own powers to take care of himself and not willing to suggest to Mary any inability in that line, she, like a wise young woman, said nothing of her talk with the sheriff. Nor did Gorman intend to mention it.

“Bradey won’t try enny gunplay,” said Gorman. “He’s too slick. An’ Moore ain’t shootin’ right good these days. I’m ridin’ a hunch that they’ll try to drive off some of yore steers. They’ve got a brand-doctor with the outfit by the name of Dave Lorton. I’m acquainted more or less with the hombre an I know that’s his specialty. When you bought the ranch you bought in the brand ’thout thinkin’ of enny one fakin’ it. Bradey owns five ranches rolled inter one an’ also five brands: B-in-a-box, T-on-T, 9 U W, Lazy H an’ Circle D. Put a stem top and bottom to yore bars an’ you got the T on T. [Diagram: inverted letter T on T] Connect ’em up with one an’ you got the Lazy H. [Diagram: letter H, on it's side] Easy for Dave who blacksmiths his own irons to suit the job.

“I don’t claim Dave came here special for this, but he’s one of Moore’s crew an’ Moore’s bin runnin’ a ranch over the State line for Bradey. Looks to me as if they’ve closed that up, now Moore’s here as foreman.

“If you were to leave about thirty three-year olds somewheres handy near yore line fence, away from the rest of yore herd, as if you’d rounded ’em up for sale, why I wudn’t be surprised but what Bradey’s crowd wud annex ’em some dark night.”

“Neither wud I. What’s the idea, givin’ Bradey over two thousand dollars?”

“See if you don’t think it’s a good one. Have you got the steers?”

“I’ve got ’em. I was thinkin’ of makin’ a shipment enny way.”

“How many hands you got?”

“Cowhands?”

“Yep.”

“Five. Two here with me, two ridin’ fence an’ the other’s gentlin’ a colt.”

“Good.” Gorman suspected the gentled colt was later to become the property of Mary White. “Trust ’em to keep their mouths shet?”

“You bet. They ain’t feelin’ kindly to Bradey. Sore they weren’t in on the fuss at Jordan’s. Wanted to cuss me out when I came back with a sticky shirt and a skinned rib.”

“All right. Git the three that’s handy. Loan me a cowhawss an’ I’ll help. Got some place we can herd these steers while we rope an’ throw ’em that none of Bradey’s outfit cud look into? I’ve an idea they’re keepin’ an eye on yore place.”

“There’s a box cañon we cud put ’em into. Reg’lar hide out. But——”

“I’ll explain. Come inter the house.”

When they emerged Jarrett regarded the sheriff with something like awe.

“How in time you come to think of that beats me?” he said.

“I didn’t think of it. Hombre that wrote the article thought of it.”

“It’s a whizzer. Let’s go.”

In five minutes the little cavalcade of five horsemen were loping to where Jarrett’s three-year olds were grazing. All of them had lariats and tie ropes. Gorman had traded his own Stetson for an ancient broadbrim that flopped over his face. He borrowed a gaudy neckerchief and, on a strange cowpony, it was not likely that he would be recognized even if some one were watching. And he was highly necessary at the ceremony that followed the roping and hog tieing of the indignant steers.

All five were experts—so were the horses—and, while no records were broken, no steer took longer than five minutes to overhaul and rope and tie ready for Gorman. There were twenty-six of them, fine animals worth seventy-five dollars each on the hoof, no small portion of Jarrett’s possessions. Divided by five men’s work the whole performance was over in an hour. Gorman’s part of it took less than two minutes to a beef. Nothing like it had ever before been witnessed on a range. The riders joked and laughed, but, when they saw the results, they turned their jests to whistles of surprise.

“It beats my time,” said a grizzled veteran. An’ me bin punchin’ cows fo’ thirty-six year an’ never noticed it. She’s a humdinger!”

They had roped off the narrow mouth of the cañon, but now they released and drove them to a corner of the line fence where there was good grazing and a spring, sure that they would not stray.

“There’s the bait,” said Gorman as they left them contentedly feeding. “If Bradey swallers it I’ve got him landed.”

“That scheme of yores wud sure be recommended by the Humane Society an’ the cranks what say how crewel it is to notch a ca’fs ears an’ brand a cow. The same kind that used to check-rein their drivin’ hawsses before they bought ’em flivvers,” said the old cow boy. “But I can’t see the bunch usin’ it at a round-up. Make a reg’lar pink tea of it. She’s sure a humdinger, though,” he concluded with a shake of his head. “An’ me punchin’ for thirty-six years! I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t shown me.”

“I saw Bradey’s niece—as they call her—in town to-day,” Gorman said to Jarrett casually, when they were back at the ranch house. “She’s sure a mighty nice appearin’ gal. Reckon the hombre that gits her’ll have to step some to deserve her.”

Jarrett looked him straight in the eyes.

“That’s the way I feel about it, Gorman,” he said. “There’s on’y one like her.”

“I wudn’t be surprised, Bud. Let me know if ennything happens. But keep clear of the steers yorese’f. Good luck to you.”

He drove on to the Jordan cabin with the results of his afternoon’s work carefully stowed away. As an experiment it had been more startlingly successful than he had anticipated. There would be no need for further tests, but he intended to make some with the doctor as assistant. Suddenly he grinned to himself, remembering the tag of the telegram he had received from the commissioner regarding the B-in-a-box boundaries. The official had stated his intention of coming to Vacada within a day or so.

“That cinches it,” said Gorman aloud. “I’ll git him lined up with a demonstration. If Bradey only holds off from takin’ that bait for two or three days now we cudn’t ask for ennything prittier.”

Pete, recognizing the car, was outside the cabin to meet him.

“Things goin’ all right,” he said in answer to Gorman’s question. Right as they kin. The woman’s worryin’ erbout her man. Her kid’s gittin’ better, all over the cold except the snuffles now. The other kid’s a bear. So’s the sick one, I reckon when she’s O. K. They both got an idea I’m some sort of bumble-puppy you sent up for their amusement,” he grumbled, his eyes be lying his words. “Jake’s comin’ erlong. He ain’t got enny idea I’m a deputy. I took off my star when I’m handlin’ him—might git him feverish.”

"He ain’t under arrest, Pete.”

“Wal, I’m bettin’ he’s been doin’ things that might make him think he was, if he saw my badge. Talks some when he’s delirious. You patch ’em together an’ you sabe there’s bin a killin’ an’ he’s mixed up in it. He’s on’y a kid an’ it’s on his conscience though, when he’s conscious, he figgers it ain’t manly to have sich an article.

“Out of his fever now an’ through ravin’. But he’s worried becos the woman here is so good to him. Make what you kin out of that. Give him a few days an’ he’ll come clean to her, mebbe. Mebbe he won’t. That all sounds like I was ravin’, but, if you cud watch his eyes when she comes in to do somethin’ fo’ him, you’d see what I meant.

“Soon after he come-to he asks where he was. I told him he was in Jordan’s shack an’ Mrs. Jordan was givin’ up her bed to him so he cud be easy an’ git well in quick time. You shud have seen the way he looked then, chief. Like a dawg that’s done wrong an’ knows it an’ gits given a bone ’stead of a kick. Then he shoves his face in the piller an’ stays that way.”

“If he or the crowd he was with had killed Sam Jordan, that wud tie it up?” asked Gorman.

“It sure wud. That’s what I was figgerin’. I don’t think this kid did the shootin’, but he was mixed up in it an’ bein’ a kid, as I say, he ain’t hard all through.”

Gorman nodded. Here was endorsement of the hunch he had been riding ever since first Dave Lorton and then Bradey had shown such special interest in the gun he had taken from Curly. He went on into the cabin.

Mrs. Jordan met him, talking low.

“He’s sleeping inside,” she said.

“Got yore only bedroom? How are you makin’ out? I told Pete to bunk in the barn.”

“We are comfortable enough out here in the big room,” she said. “Sheriff, I want to ask you about my husband. When did he leave the money for those groceries and why didn’t he bring them back with him?”

“Suppose we sit down, marm,” suggested Gorman, his face grave. Both the children were playing outside in the sunshine with Pete, the deputy taking the role of a bucking bronco, an elephant, a railroad engine and an automobile with a swiftness of change that would have put the star jinni of the “Arabian Nights” to shame.

“I can’t place yore husband in Vacada,” he said. “You had enough on yore mind last time I saw you without enny more worry. But you got to face it. I sent up the stuff from the store, seein’ you were tied up here an’ cudn’t do yore own orderin’. Brought a few more things to-day. You kin pay me back for ’em some day, if you want to.”

He drew out the Colt with the pitted barrel and the rust spot on the muzzle and showed it to her.

“Know it?” he asked her. She took it and turned it about in her hands with her face turning chalky white. Then she put it on the table.

“It’s Sam’s gun,” she said, her face working. “He bought it second-handed and cheap because of that rust mark. They’ve murdered him.”

Suddenly her head went down on her arms on the table and her back shook with the sobs that racked her. Gorman looked at her in pitying silence that he knew would convey to her the fact that he believed she had spoken truly. He knew her kind—the Western frontiers-woman, fighting all odds beside her mate to make a home out of the wilderness for themselves and their children. True pioneers, true Americans, striking out for themselves and building up the country, battling poverty and the unkindly elements.

She would face her grief presently, take up the added burden bravely.

He left her and went into the inner room. Jake lay asleep. Despite his tan his face was pallid, dark pits under the eyes, the cheeks a little pinched. He was about the same age as the rider named Curly, lads both, easily led. The down on his cheeks showed soft in the sunlight. There was no look of the hardness in the sleeping face that it wore when the boy was awake and well, striving to live up to the favor of Moore, imagining himself a reckless, dare-devil buckaroo.

CHAPTER VII.

Gorman had sympathy in his gaze, though the eyes the boy looked into when he awoke were hard as steel. Jake summoned up his own spirit of bravado to meet them.

“Mornin’, sheriff,” he said with a weak attempt at jauntiness. “You lookin’ for me?”

“Not this mornin’, Jake. Fur as the rumpus we had yestiddy stands we’ll call it square if you’re willin’. You were helpin’ to run a woman an’ her two kids off the place they were livin’ in, whether they happened to own it rightful or not. Moore told you they didn’t. I’m tellin’ you, as sheriff, that it’s her property an’ never was Bradey’s. Aside from all that, if I’d bin tryin’ to run off a helpless woman an’ a couple of kids, with the husband an’ father lyin’ off somewhere with a bullet in him, I’d feel I’d got off easy with one through my lungs, knowin’ I was goin’ to git well, with a doctor waitin’ on me an’ good quarters in the house of the woman whose man ain’t comin’ back to her agen. That’s the way I’d feel erbout it, Jake.”

Jake’s lips twitched, his eyes showed suddenly as if they had been bruised when the sheriff mentioned the father lying off with a bullet in him, never to come back again. Then he closed them.

Gorman took out the gun which he had taken from the table and put back in his pocket. He held it in front of Jake and touched him on the shoulder.

“Got somethin’ to show you,” he said and, as the rider opened his eyes again, he shot the question at him.

“Ever see this gun before? I just showed it to the woman in there—to Sam Jordan’s widder. She recognized it, Jake.”

For a fleeting second there was terror in Jake’s eyes. Then they grew hard and bright, his boyish jaw clamped stubbornly before and after his answer.

“Seen lot’s like it.”

“This ain’t quite the same as other guns, Jake. Sabe the rust spot? Makes it easy to remember. I’ll tell you where I got it. Off of Curly. It ain’t the one Curly was wearin’ the other morning when I shot it out of his hand. He ses that one cuts lead. Mebbe it does. I hit it on the cylinder. Then he got funny with this one an’ I took it away from him. Dave ses he loaned it to him, which was a kindly act—mebbe. Dave was all-fired anxious to git it back. So was Bradey. Came inter town special to git it. Not such a good gun, either. Barrel’s pitted an’ there’s a dent in the sight. But it’s mighty vallyble to some one. I think Dave was loco to pass it on to Curly, though no doubt he thought it was a foxy move.

“It’s Jordan’s gun, Jake. I wonder if he got a chance to use it. He used to share this bed you’re in with his widder. Wudn’t wonder if the two orphan kiddies were born here. If I knew ennything erbout how he come to lose thet gun, Jake, even if I was the one who did the killin’—I’d sure feel like a skunk if I didn’t come through. That is if I was bein’ taken care of by the widder. ‘Why, he’s on’y just a boy,’ she said to me. Lookin’ out for you like you was her son ’stead of bein’ what you are. I wudn’t wonder but what she’s prayed for you to git well.”

The inquisition was almost merciless. It was plain that he had reached through to the very soul of Jake and that he was in torment. But between the wounded cowboy and the woman sobbing out her heart in the next room, while her children played in the sun with Pete, unconscious of the fact that they were orphans—for Gorman had no doubt of Jordan’s murder—the sheriff did not hesitate to put the question.

“There’s some hombres,” went on Gorman, “who figger they’ve never got to give away their pals. But Moore an’ Dave Lorton ain’t pals to enny one but themselves. Dave slipped this gun to Curly an’ when the kid let that fact out, Dave wud have killed him if his eyes had bin knives. You come clean, Jake.”

Jake’s face set. The boyishness vanished.

“I don’t sabe what you’re talkin’ erbout,” he said stubbornly.

“All right, Jake. You got quite a while to stay here. You think it over.”

Jake set his bent arm across his face, his obstinate jaw showing under it. Presently Gorman went out.

“The kid’s got guts,” he told himself. “On’y he’s started wrong. Thinks he’d be yeller to give ’em away. An’ he’s likely not overanxious to tell a sheriff how he’s mixed up in it. But I’m bettin’ he’ll come through.”

Mrs. Jordan raised her tear-stained face as he reëntered the room. She got up, wiping her eyes with her apron.

“You’ll bring him back to me,” she said. “When you find him.”

“Yes marm. There’s a chance or so he ain’t dead, of course.”

“No,” she said stonily. “I’ve known he was dead for days. I’m sure of it But I want what’s left of my man—and I want to see the men that murdered him hung for it.”

Her voice was flat, but there was passion in it, the passion of a woman robbed of her mate, firm for revenge.

Gorman nodded. Without finding the body any case for murder would fall to the ground. Short of the confession of some one who saw the deed it would be hard to discover. The corpse might be buried.

“I’ll do my best,” he said simply. It was a strange and harsh situation, the wounded rider who could not be moved without losing his life, tended by a woman bitter and merciless in the face of her tragedy yet sorry for the lad who had been ranged—at least—with her husband’s killers.

“I don’t blame the kid for not comin’ through so fur,” he reflected as he left the cabin. “He wudn’t tell her. He cudn’t. She’d cut his throat if he did, way she’s feelin’ now. But there ain’t much fear of that an’ he may come clean to Pete. He’s sure feelin’ like a sick coyote right now.

“Hello, kiddies! What you got there?”

“A nelefunt,” said the youngest child, prodding Pete with a stick. Git up, nelefunt.”

“He ain’t a very good specimen,” said Gorman gravely. “Not much pep. Too bad you ain’t got some peanuts to feed him. I wonder——” he put his hand in his pocket. “I’ll be hornswoggled,” he cried, “if I ain’t got some with me. And some candy. Ain’t that lucky? Don’t give him too many peanuts. His stummick ain’t very good. An’ don’t give him enny of the candy. Here.”

The children squealed with delight and the candy released Pete from bondage.

“Keep 'em outside till she comes for ’em, Pete,” said Gorman. “I’ve told her. I got hold of her husband’s gun. Dave Lorton had it. I’ve left it in the bedroom. She’ll likely ask for it after a bit, but, if you git a chance, you pick it up when Jake’s awake an’ wonder where it come from. Sabe? I’ve had a chat with him.

“You keep that star of yores in yore pocket. He may come through. If he starts to, you kin warn him, to make it legal. If he makes up his mind to talk that won’t stop him. It never does. Every time she does ennything for him he’ll hate himself worse. He’s goin’ to be one of our best bets, Pete. They don’t dare take him away, but we won’t give ’em a chance. That’s one reason why you’re here, Pete. If they took a notion he was goin’ to spill, they might try to finish him up. I wudn’t put it past ’em. You better git a li’l sleep days an’ none nights, Pete. In a day or so I’ll have somethin’ else for ’em to think erbout.”

“Somethin’ stirrin’?”

“I’ve started somethin’, Pete.”

“An’ me not goin’ to be in it!”

“You’ve got yore job right here, Pete. Now you be a nelefunt an’ git yore peanuts.”

“I’d a sight rather have some chewin’. I’ll be out afore long.”

“I’ll bring you up a plug of Star termorrer or nex’ day. Got to go now.”

It was dark before he reached town and turned in the car. The same evening he showed the doctor the results of his experiment with the steers and told what he had done to bait Bradey. The doctor exclaimed over the showing and Gorman unfolded his plan for a demonstration before the commissioner.

That came off two days later when the land official arrived for his monthly hearing. He went to the dairy under protest of limited time and came away astonished.

“You’re going to take that up with the cattleman’s association, I suppose,” he said. “It should be mighty valuable.”

“After I’m through with it,” said Gorman. “Meantime, I’m keepin’ it dark. I’m hopin’ for a rustlin’ bee to be pulled off most every night an’ I’ve used this idea in connection.”

“I see,” said the commissioner, though he only saw vaguely. “I’m not curious,” though he was, “and I’ll keep this demonstration quiet, of course. But it’s remarkable—and eminently scientific. There should be no doubt as to its being court evidence.”

“That’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

“I understood you had done away with the rustlers hereabouts,” went on the commissioner, “but I suppose it will break out occasionally. They’ve had an epidemic of it the other side of the State line lately. I was talking with their commissioner last week. They suspected the man who ran a ranch quite close to the line. But they couldn’t pin anything on him. The steers were run off in comparatively small lots and either sent out of the State, or, as some of the losers thought, they were rebranded and that so cleverly they couldn’t swear to it. The brands were not blotted, but doctored in such a way that there were no fresh burn scars showing. Cs changed into Os, an L T into a box and so on. Identification is a hard matter—or was. Your plan upsets such tricks.”

“Should, if you kin git ’em to take it up,” said Gorman. “What was the name of the suspected ranch, an’ who run it?”

“A man by the name of Moore. It was a ranch with a registered brand that I have forgotten for the moment—no—I have it—I noted it because of the irony S O S. Moore was a cattle buyer, which would account for his having different brands on the cattle he was handling. A smart scheme, if he was crooked. As I say, they couldn’t pin anything on him, but they made it so uncomfortable for him that he cleared out. Sold or drove out. Matter of fact he was invited to leave. They didn’t like his style.”

“Man name of Moore is foreman for King Bradey right now,” said Gorman dryly, watching the commissioner. “Come quite recent. Brought erlong a few hands. They’re all workin’ fo’ Bradey. Hombre by the name of Dave Lorton with ’em. He’s bin in trubble for fakin’ brands. Bradey’s a cattle buyer, too,” he added as if aimlessly. “But I sure aim to put down all rustlin’ in this county, no matter who’s behind it, commissioner.”

“Quite right, sheriff,” the commissioner said hastily. “You get the goods on the rustlers and then do your duty.”

“I aim to. You see, I’ve got no votes botherin’ me. I ain’t aimin’ for another term an’ the governor’s backin’ me.”

“Yes. Exactly. You’re in a strong position. Very fortunate. I’ve been very interested in what you showed me, Gorman. I must get back to my hearings. I have to leave to-night.”

Demonstrating to the commissioner was a good stroke. He could be used as a witness. He had expressed his opinion in front of the doctor. He was committed. And he would undoubtedly stand from under if he thought Bradey was going to fall.

The information he had unwittingly give made Gorman see the reason for Moore’s joining forces and the need for a clean-up. The S O S ranch had outlived its usefulness as a receiving and forwarding station. Sooner or later Moore’s presence would be generally known and the suspicion with which he was tainted spread to Bradey, who had carefully operated under cover, so far.

There was the mystery of Jordan to determine, but Gorman let that ride until he heard from Jarrett. Then general action would clear up many matters, he believed. And he was busy with other duties in Vacada.

The next morning the telephone rang in his office at six o’clock. Bud Jarrett’s voice came vibrantly over the line.

“They’ve gone,” he said. “I ain’t started to trail ’em till I told you. What’s the next move?”

“I’ll be out as soon as I kin. Wait till I git there. We’ll git you back yore steers, but they’ll be branded Lazy H, unless we’ve played this all wrong.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Gorman had made his plans. It was not going to be an easy matter to arrest King Bradey, Moore, and Dave Lorton. He did not contemplate arresting the whole outfit. Bradey could muster at least fifty riders. Jarrett’s steers had to be returned after they had been discovered rebranded on the B-in-a-box holding, with whatever other evidence they could find. Also the few that belonged to Mrs. Jordan. Some of the steers were of Bradey’s own raising. If these could be segregated in any way they would represent the interest of Mary White, which the sheriff intended to try and protect. There would be the claims of the ranchers from the neighboring State to be taken up eventually.

Bradey, thinking his depredations thoroughly covered, would not tamely submit to judgment. He would realize that it meant the unmasking of all his operations and he would fight, at first with force and then through the courts, if he could bring his influence to bear. The last possibility did not bother Gorman. He would have evidence that would be overwhelming, aside from the raid on the Jordan place. Bradey, indicted for stealing cattle, perhaps for complicity in a murder, would find his influence melting like snow under the sun.

Gorman busied himself at the telephone, calling up ranch after ranch. At a few he got in touch with the owners, at each he left urgent messages to be delivered to them at the earliest moment. All knew him personally, and his reputation. They knew that he would not summon them lightly and the word rustlers brought them into swift action.

This was a matter for horses and Gorman saddled the black mare. He had made a rendezvous for two o’clock at a spot midway between Vacada and the Two-Bar. He himself was there ahead of time and soon small bands began to arrive. In most cases these consisted of owners, their foremen and two or three riders, all with their cartridge belts girded about them, ready for fight. A few brought rifles in saddle sheaths.

At a few minutes after two there was no more dust in sight. And there were no absentees. Gorman harangued them briefly. He told them of Moore’s activity in the neighboring State, of his connection with Bradey and the running off of Jarrett’s steers. Also the graver matter of Sam Jordan. And he sketched lightly the position of Bradey’s ward. They listened soberly. The eldest of them, proprietor of the X-bar-X, a man whose hair was gray though his body and mind were still vigorous, glancing at the others, made himself their spokesman.

“We know you wouldn’t bring us out on a fool’s errand, Gorman,” he said, “and I don’t doubt but that you’ll make out a case, but the one thing you’ve got is the theft of these steers. If they were taken last night and blanket-branded, with an easy change from Two-Bar to Lazy H, how are you goin’ to prove up on 'em? Jarrett may be willin’ to swear to ’em, but that sort of identification don’t go in court. It can be all balled up by a good examinin’ lawyer.”

“If you all’ll go with me to locate the steers, I’ll guarantee the identification,” said Gorman. “I’m stakin’ my word an’ reputation it’ll be satisfactory to all of you. I’m figgerin’ they’ll have ’em tucked away for a few days, but we don’t want to run enny chance of havin’ ’em mixed with his main herd. It ’ud take some time then, mebbe, to pick ’em out, if they were with other Lazy H’s, but we cud do it even then. I’ve got the goods with me, in my slicker. If you-all will take my word for it, it’ll save a heap of time an’ I might waste a lot of it persuadin’ you away from the steers. I guarantee the identification. I’m swearin’ you all in as voluntary deputies.”

“That goes,” said the speaker. “I’m willin’ to ride blind on yore say-so, Gorman, an’ I reckon the others will. You’ve got this county clean an’ most of us have got you to thank for savin’ us cattle an’ money. We aim to keep it clean an’ if Bradey’s bin runnin’ a rankyboo on us, he goes. It’s the steers we’re after.”

The rest gathered round Gorman, lifting their right hands as he swore them in. Then they started for the Two-Bar, the hoofs of the horses thudding softly as they loped through sage and mesquite for the highlands, quiet and determined, in a cloud of alkali.

A clever brand-fakir, using a damp blanket through which to brand, can produce a mark on the animal’s hide that so closely approximates the healed-over scars of the original branding that it cannot be positively detected.

This was in the minds of all of them as they rode, but they had implicit confidence in Gorman, heading the bunch with the old rancher who had accepted his judgment and who rode as young as any of them, his face set as he brooded over what he had been told. Now and then he addressed a short question to the sheriff, but he made no further reference to the matter of identification, puzzled though he was beyond his experience.

Gorman had deferred his explanation not merely to save time, but because he realized that these were men used to old-time methods and that, without actual demonstration, many of them would treat his new method with ridicule and jesting argument. That was not the mood in which he wanted to lead them.

They found Jarrett at the Two-Bar gate. His five riders were with him. If he felt any surprise at the cavalcade he gave no sign, but greeted them cordially. Nor did he show any signs of the occasional doubts that had assailed him as to the recovery of the cattle. He had put up a big stake, but he was playing for a bigger one. With Bradey ready to ruin him to prevent his marriage with Mary White and to get even for his interference in the Jordan raid, with a scamp like Moore living at the B-in-a-box, it did not need a lover’s intuition to suggest the danger to the girl, which would be ended by this day’s work.

“I’ve found where the wire was cut,” he said. “Didn’t suppose you’d object to that, Gorman. And it’ll save some time.”

“All right. Show it to us, Bud.”

They reached the severed wire and Gorman halted them on the Two-Bar side of it. He ran his eyes over the crowd of thirty-three men and picked out four he knew had ability to read sign as he could. It was already plain in the gap for an expert, crushed grass and sage and the prints of cattle and of horses.

“They’ll run ’em over rock, sooner or later,” he said. “We’ll have to fan out. This was the old T-on-T. North is the Circle D. Any of you know the lay of the land?”

Three men spoke up and they held a consultation, drawing little maps in the soft dirt as they talked.

“Both those ranch houses are closed up,” said one of them. “Bradey keeps some men over to the Lazy H quarters with a cook. The rest eat an’ bunk to B-in-a-box.”

“Circle D house an’ corrals are in Stone Cañon,” said Gorman, who was familiar with the country though he had not ridden it for some time and was always willing to use the knowledge of others. “Seems likely Dave ’ud put ’em in a corral. But we’ll foller sign.”

For a while they had no trouble, but the trail curved off to reach a wide stretch of outcrop on which the hooves had left no mark. Yet here and there first one and then another “cut” the sign. A fragment of rock recently shaled off, cattle droppings once and horse droppings again, the burned end of a match, once the butt of a cigarette caught in a projection of the rock, the fragment of burned paper still fluttering.

“Ought to have had more sense than to smoke,” said Gorman with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Try the draw to the right, two of you, I’ll tackle the one ahead.”

Time and again, with infinite perseverance, they regained the trail, though much ingenuity had been used in the attempt to cover it. But the rustlers had worked at night when they could not see what sign they might be leaving for trained and vigilant observers. At last they topped a ridge and looked over the range of the old Circle D. Five miles away showed the mouth of the cañon where the ranch headquarters had been deserted. The buildings and corral were hidden. A stream ran out of it, twisting toward them over fairly level terrain, known as a park.

The sign was clear. They stopped for a moment to breathe their horses. Gorman, scanning the country, caught sight of a horseman appearing for a moment as he crossed a crest.

“They’ve spotted us,” he said. “First time, I imagine, or he wudn’t have taken a chance of showin’ himself. There may be more, or he may have bin left on guard. If the steers are there, they can’t move ’em. But he may be cuttin’ to B-in-a-box for help. They know what we’re after. Better tighten cinches. I may not have time to make that proof to you all. I take it you’re still acceptin' my word fo’ it. Jarrett, you want to drive ’em back with yore men if we run inter trubble?”

“No,” said Jarrett shortly. “I want to know the steers are there an’ that we’ve got the goods on Bradey. Then I’m goin’ on to the B-in-a-box.”

“I understand, Bud,” said Gorman. Jarrett meant the girl. “Who’ll do that for Jarrett? You, Hayes?”

“Why pick on me?” drawled Hayes, leaner by far than Gorman, his long legs almost ludicrous in comparison to the pony he rode. “Don’t I git none of the fun?”

“You may git more’n the rest of us,” said Gorman. “We’ll try an’ git you away clear. Will you do it? Bueno! This ain’t goin’ to be a picnic, gents. Better tighten up yore cinches an’ then we’ll ride like hell.”

There was something ominous about the band of horsemen streaming over the plain in silence, racing at top speed, the bellies of their horses brushing the grass tops. They spread out, expectant that any moment might see the issuance of a bunch of steers escorted by the riders of B-in-a-box, prepared for battle. That anticipation faded as they rapidly neared the opening of the cañon, wide at the entrance, but narrowing and curving like a boomerang. It was a grim sight for any guards and watchers of Bradey to note the swift approach. No man called or shouted, each sat clamped to his saddle, reins in one hand, gun in the other. Gorman’s reins were on his horn, the black mare guided by his knees and there was a weapon in each hand.

He entered the cañon a little ahead of the rest. It was shady from the slowly westering sun. There came the zip of a high powered bullet, sent from the right and above, burying itself with a spurt of dust in the ground. Either a warning or a shot fired in the hope of picking off the leader.

Necessarily they closed in as the ravine narrowed. At a second shot a man swayed in the saddle. The missile had struck the horn and richocheted from the steel core to plough through the thigh, above the bone.

“I kin still ride,” he said. “I’ll make a turniquet in a minnit. But I’ll git that sneakin’ sniper.”

Rifles were slid from their sheaths by those who carried them as they swept on. The buildings came into sight, then the corrals. They could see movement of cattle through the high bars. No more shots came. The sniper had been left out of range, or he waited for reinforcements.

“There they are,” said Jarrett. “Mine fo’ a million! The number’s O. K.,” he said as the gate was opened.

The steers were uneasy. In a corner of the corral smoke rose from a little pile of ashes.

“Dave’s brandin’-fire,” said Gorman.

“Hard thing to swear to Herefords,” said Jarrett, “but Gorman’s turned that trick. Look at the brandin’. All Lazy H’s an’ damned smart work, if it is on my own steers.”

“It was hard to differentiate between the cleverly added stem between the two bars of Jarrett’s brand, done with a running iron forged for the occasion; dulled marks that in a day or two would be absolutely indistinguishable from the real thing. One of the men found a fragment of scorched blanketing that had been thrown into the fire, but saved by a twist of wind.

The man shot through the leg, a ranch owner, had slipped off quietly with one of his men. Both carried rifles. He had bandaged his leg roughly and his face showed a grim determination to get even. He was the most famous deer hunter in the county, and, when Gorman missed him he fancied that the sharp shooter was going to regret his marksmanship.

The steers were rounded up, the bit of blanket preserved by Gorman. Hayes took charge of the cattle with his men and the rest formed an escort to see them safely across the plain and down a draw that might favor an ambuscade. Past that in safety they had a fair chance of getting through without trouble. But the steers went slowly, herded securely enough by so many men, and beyond doubt men were racing from the Lazy H by short cuts, already on the way, and others coming from the farther B-in-a-box. Bradey would fight to prove his honesty, though he must soon know that the countryside had joined against him.

What Gorman did not know was that Bradey had received a telephone from the commissioner, a short and guarded message before he went to his train.

“There’s trouble, King, about a man you’ve got by the name of Moore. News came from the next State and things are stirring. This is the best I can do for you, King, you’ll have to dry your own fish.”

So that Bradey and Moore, were not unprepared for the news brought them by a galloping messenger on a foundered horse. Later by phone from the quarters at Lazy H.

“Is Lorton there?” Bradey asked, in answer to the second message, troubled by the first, though he did not show it. The brand-doctor came to the phone.

“Get through with your job?” asked Bradey.

“Yep. But they’ve smelled a rat. There’s hell to——”

Bradey shut him off. He went outside on the veranda to Moore. He had already told the foreman of the commissioner’s friendly but limited tip.

“The branding’s finished,” he said. “They can’t prove a damned thing if Dave’s done a good job. We’ll make ’em smart for this. Jump ’em. Now’s the chance for you to even up your scores, Moore. Wipe out that damned sheriff while they’re on our land.”

“The jig’s up,” said Moore. “Or it’s spilled enough not to keep on dancin’, ennyway. I say clear.” He took a long drink from the handy bottle.

“Cut that stuff,” said Bradey. “What do you mean to do? Quit? Leave the stock an’ run, you damned coward?”

“I’m no coward,” said Moore. “But I’m not a fool. You kin stay if you want to. Take yore ha’f out in the stock if you’re so blamed sure of holdin’ them. I’m goin’ to take what you’ve got in yore safe an’ a check fo’ the rest. I’ll chance yore stoppin’ the check. I’ve got what was in my bank. I’m goin’ with the boys to git a crack at that sheriff an’ then I’m goin’ to start out on my own. More’n that, I’m takin’ the gal.”

Above them Mary White listened from her open window. She slipped back and hurried, but softly went down the stairs. She had on her riding things. At the foot of the stairs she met Pedro. His greasy face wore a half smile. The two men could be heard quarreling on the veranda and Pedro had gleaned his own information and made up his mind as to his procedure. He was a believer in the star of King Bradey, but he inclined, in his greaser way, toward the decision of Moore.

“Where you go?” he asked.

He stood in front of her and she struck him fiercely with her quirt and ran out. Pedro went through the house to the veranda.

“Double crossin’ me, were you?” demanded Moore fiercely. “Stallin’ me erlong? Don’t forgit what I can pass across to let you in deeper than a bogged cow!”

Bradey grasped the bottle that was on the small table where they had been sitting before the telephone rang. Moore’s hand dropped to his gun as Pedro appeared.

“Mary, she go,” said the cook.

Moore exploded an oath and leaped the porch rail. Bradey had no gun with him and he went inside for one. Moore ran for his horse, standing saddled, as the girl, low in her saddle, quirting her pinto pony, sped between two buildings. Moore vaulted to the saddle and raced in pursuit as Bradey came out. There was no horse up for him. He seldom rode and he was not a good horseman. He stood impotent, the pair already out of sight. He was between two fires.

Not for the first time he regretted his partnership with Moore. Not for the first time had Moore threatened to ^{(illegible text)} on him and it was while he devised means of checking him that he permitted him to think he would consent to his capture of Mary White.

Bradey had not much soul that was not numb with selfishness, but what there was left of it that was decent rose against such a mating. But he had his hand in a dog’s mouth and a bite was fatal.

Now indeed it looked as if the jig was up, but he had to make a fight of it, rally his friends, ward off trial until he could escape, leaving bail behind if he had to. Moore might split. He had a fair share of the spoils in hand, all he would get.

Bradey set up a clamor on the wagon tire that summoned the men, and, as they came in, those of them who were not out on various duties, he chose two of his own and despatched them after Moore and the girl.

“Get him,” he said savagely, taking them apart. If she don’t want to come back, let her go,” he added wearily. It looked as if the jig was up, but he was a fighter for his own, illicitly gathered or not. He supposed the girl would go to Jarrett. And he had no time now for Jarrett.

The two men started away. Bradey turned toward the others.

“Gorman, Jarrett, and some sort of posse are taking away those steers in the Circle D corral,” he said briefly. “The boys there are after them, but they’re in force. Hop to it.”

In five minutes the place was clear of them. They imagined the two already despatched were on some special errand and they rode hard toward the Circle D, tangenting to cut off the posse, keen enough for a fight, realizing that their own liberties might be in danger, but sure of Bradey’s judgment.

Bradey went heavily into the house, taking with him the whisky from the porch. He drank a full glass of it and it warmed him and stirred him out of a sluggishness that had invested him. He started taking papers from his safe, destroying some of them, putting the rest back and closing the steel box. Then he busied himself with long-disstance calls.

Mary White, looking back, saw Moore in pursuit. Her mount was fresh and fast and she rode well. Instinctively she made for the Two-Bar. It would be dark before she reached there, and, if they had not returned, she might lose Moore in the hills. At the last she had her automatic.

And Moore settled down in his saddle, determined to reach her, to take his will of her, to force her to go with him, or, perhaps, to leave her. Possess her he would. The man was instinct with evil. He cast aside his revenge on the sheriff—he was done with sheriffs—not with Jarrett. With the latter he was resolved to have a devilish accounting through the girl.

Then he would ride on, down to Mexico. From there he would send in information enough to the authorities to put Bradey behind the bars. He had enough money on him with which to enjoy life until he wanted to start in afresh, marauding along the line.

Behind him followed the two riders from B-in-a-box. They were well mounted and they picked up the trail, then lost it. They rode to the top of a hogback, but the twisting contours the hills hid the pursued. One of them threw his leg across the saddle and rolled a cigarette.

“Old man seemed riled,” he said. “Sorter worried, at that.”

“Sure did. Had a row with Moore.”

“Wanted us to git him. Al, if they’ve split, there’s goin’ to be a bust up. He drawed our money three days ago. I’ve got an itch to drift away from here. If Gorman’s out, there’s goin’ to be big trubble. It don’t look good to me. I’ve got most of my pay. How erbout you?”

“Most of it. Won some at poker last night. You’ve got a long head on you. Me, I’m not achin’ to git rounded up by Gorman. We’re all in it.”

“Not so deep as Dave. He was with Moore when they got Jordan. An’ Jake.”

“Gorman’ll attend to Dave Lorton. They’ve got Jake.”

“I reckon so. Let’s make the Old Man a present of three day’s pay. I got a hunch we wudn’t ever git it. What do you say, Al, shall we drift?”

“Let’s go north. They won’t bother erbout us none if we ain’t on the spot. I know where they’ll take us on. At the I X L. Allus lookin’ for hands round this time o’ year.”

Through the twilight they drifted north. Once they heard the faint sound of firing and grinned at each other. That they had left the rest of the outfit at war with the law was little to them. There are some kinds of rats that are always first up the gangway and the first to go down. They showed a species of wisdom. And the I X L was a ranch where men worked hard for their money.

CHAPTER IX.

Mary rode south. She neither gained nor lost. She tried to be brave, but fear was in her heart. Not so much for herself, though she sensed something fiendishly implacable in Moore’s pursuit, but for her lover. Presently she heard a distant mutter of shots. If the Two-Bar was deserted she would have to go on until darkness that seemed so long in coming though she could see the sunset flaming over the western hills. There was no other place near except Jordan’s cabin. On they rode and Moore seemed to be creeping up. She urged her pony to better speed and he responded, then stumbled, a foot in a gopher hole. He got it out and seemed to go as well as ever, but presently commenced to go lame.

She began to have to hang on to her nerve. Back in the growing dusk Moore was getting closer. On and on with diminishing speed as the pinto was forced to favor the wrenched tendon. They came out of a pass on to the plateau where she could see the light burning in the Jordan house. She crouched forward on the withers of the pinto, riding like a jockey, coaxing, urging. Now she could hear the thud of Moore’s horse coming up fast behind.

She raised the quirt she always carried but never used, save as an ornament, for it was beaded by Indian work, and cut the pinto over the flanks. The gallant pony, stung and surprised, roused himself to a short burst of speed. She was close to the door when it opened and a man came out. Dread that it was one of her uncle’s riders swept over her and then she saw that this was not any one from the ranch, but a man once pointed out to her as Gorman’s deputy. The same informant had told her that the man had been a great fighter in earlier days. He was old now.

He did not seem much of a rescuer, but the pinto’s overtaxed tendon bowed and he fell to his knees. She slid off safely.

“What’s wrong, miss?” asked Pete, peering at the oncoming rider.

“It’s Moore,” she gasped. “He’s after me.”

“You go inter the house,” said Pete. “I’ll tend to him.”

She had a swift vision of the deputy standing bent forward at the hips, his pose tense. Then he flattened himself by the logs as Moore’s gun flashed and roared. An answer stabbed out of the logs as she rushed in. Mrs. Jordan closed the door and the two women stood breathless while four—five shots rang out—then silence.

Then came a knock. Pete’s voice.

“It’s O. K.,” he said.

They opened and he came in with blood running down from under his coat sleeve.

“’Tain’t but a scratch,” he said with a grin. “He got in the first shot, but he’s shootin’ left-handed and he ain’t good at it. It’s saved the State the price of a rope—an’ a trial.”

“You killed him?”

“I sure did,” said Pete nonchalantly. “Deader’n a squashed snake. You git me some hot water an’ I’ll wash myself a bit. Then I’ll go in an’ tell Jake. He might be glad to know, at that.”

He came out of the bedroom half an hour later, his lined face earnest.

“The kid’s come through,” he said. “Marm, I ain’t actin’ as counsel for him, but I believe what he told me. It seems the kid was with Moore an’ Dave Lorton when they killed yore husband. The kid had no idea they was goin’ to do it till yore man told ’em they cud go to hell, when Moore warned him he on’y had a few days. Then Dave shot him. Dave took his gun. Later he passed it on to Curly, which is where he made a bad move. They made the kid in there help bury him.”

“God!” The woman sat staring toward the door of the bedroom. Mary White put a hand on her arm.

“That shut the kid’s mouth,” said Pete. “Made him an accessory. But you was good to him an’ Jim Gorman he had a talk with him. So did I. When he heard Moore was dead he came through. He’s feelin’ pritty bad.”

“I hope I can forgive him,” said Mrs. Jordan in a hard voice. “He can tell us where my Sam is buried.” She choked a little. “I am sorry you shot Moore,” she went on. But there’s one left. I’ll see him hang.”

“I wudn’t wonder,” said Pete. “The chief is likely in touch with him by now. They’ve stopped firin’ back in the hills.” He looked at Mary, shook his head and went out into the night. He dragged the dead body of Moore, with two bullets through his heart, round the corner of the house, bit off a chew of tobacco and stood listening. After a while there was another spatter of gunfire. Then the silence of night as the bright stars came out.

The steers were well through the draw when the riders from the Lazy H attacked. Just before they appeared a single rifle shot sounded in the hills. The deerslayer had got his man. Fifteen riders of Bradey’s came pouring over a hill and down the slope, firing as they came into range.

Gorman gave Hayes orders to push on with the steers and the rest of them wheeled to return the fire. The rifles emptied three of the saddles while the bullets from the revolvers still went wild. Then the shots began to tell. The rider next to Gorman went down and he shot the man who had fired, through the head. There was a rapid exchange until Gorman shouted an order and they charged the Bradey forces. Five of them were left behind when the others vanished over the hill. Three of these would never ride again. The two wounded were given in the charge of three of the posse who had been hurt and despatched after the steers. Then the sheriff led his horse men up the hill.

The routed riders were spurring toward others coming from the B-in-a-box.

“Get after ’em,” called Gorman. “Carry it to ’em. There ain’t much light left for good shootin’. You men with the rifles git up there to the right an’ open on ’em. Don’t believe they’re goin’ to stand, but there’s two of ’em I want. Moore an’ Dave Lorton. Bradey won’t likely be erlong, he ain’t much of a rider.”

Moore was not destined to meet with Gorman that night. But Dave Lorton was there with his hatchet face sharpened, his eyes shining like a wolf, a born killer, fighting against possible custody. It looked to him as if this posse that the newcomers said was made up of the best men roundabout were out for something more than mere rustling. He fancied himself the prime quarry.

Gorman sensed something of this in a general way when he said he thought they would not stand. The posse represented the law as typified by himself and it stood for something more, the arousing of public spirit that cannot be downed. The riders of the B-in-a-box had Dave for their only leader in the absence of Moore and of Bradey. That absence did not bolster their courage in the face of the feeling that they were in a losing game—outlawed. The sentiment that had made the two riders go north to the I X L was not entirely lacking from the rest And when they saw the posse divide and come galloping in, bringing the fight to them, they wavered.

Rifle bullets began to sing among them, and found a mark or two. Then from the other side approached Gorman on the black, his guns ready, riding with his knees, ready to fire with deadly aim. Back of him almost a score of men who had order and law and justice backing them.

“Hands up!” shouted Gorman as they closed in. The riflemen had remounted and were attacking on the other side. Unless they ran, escaping, scattering in the gathering darkness, or surrendered, they would have to fight it out. Even if they won in this mêlée prices would be on their heads for any man to gather by capture or betrayal.

They answered the fire half heartedly, some of them, while others rode aside and held their arms high, reined up in a little group that the rest, surrounded, wounded and wounding like treed beasts, cursed at as they began to fall.

A man rode desperately out of the ruck and fired at Gorman. The sheriff swerved the mare as he saw the other’s arm begin to rise and fired. He struck Curly in the shoulder with his bullet, mercifully.

“That kid sure has persistence,” he said to himself as he galloped after another he had marked. Dave Lorton.

The B-in-a-box men were breaking up, those who still held their saddles or who had not given up the fight. The light was failing. In the dusk Dave Lorton fired to kill and missed though the bullet ran a tiny groove above the sheriff’s ear. He pulled trigger again, wondering why Gorman did not shoot. The black mare was riding him off as he wheeled and rode with spurs sunk in his horse’s flanks, reloading.

“Put ’em up, Dave!” cried the sheriff. For answer Lorton, three shells in his gun, twisted in his saddle. He was sure that Gorman’s guns must be empty, both of them. Then he saw them spitting flame, left and right, left and right. His horse staggered and fell in its tracks, a bullet in its brain, its spine smashed. Dave Lorton fell headlong, looking up to see Gorman standing above him, covering hint. Lorton had lost his gun. He was helpless.

“I sure hate to kill a good hawss, Dave,” said Gorman grimly, “but I was bound to take you alive. I want to see you erbout that gun you gave Curly. Jake’s come through,” he added, using the old trick, not knowing that he prophesied confession.

The snarl on Dave’s face convinced him that he had found Jordan’s murderer.

“We won’t bother erbout the brand-fakin’ charge this time, Dave,” he said. “I’ve bin packin’ a pair of handcuffs for you quite a while. We’ll put ’em on.”

They found Bradey in a lighted room, smoking an oily cigar. The reek of whisky was in the air, the fingers of his hands closed and unclosed as he faced Gorman, one cheek red with the blood from his scalp wound, backed by stern-faced neighbors who had once looked up to the man they now came to take away with them to jail and judgment.

But Bradey fronted them.

“This sheriff of yours has led you into a nice mess, gentlemen,” he said. “Why have you raided my cattle, marked with my brand, on a cock-and-bull story from Gorman? There’ll be heavy damages to pay.”

Jarrett pressed forward.

“Where’s your niece?” he said. “And where’s Moore?”

“Find one and you may find the other,” Bradey barked. “I’ll trim you yet, Jarrett. I’ll break you.”

“That’s enough,” said Gorman. “You’ll have enough to tend to with yore own trubbles, Bradey. We’ve got the goods on you. You’d better tell us what you know erbout Moore an’ the gal.”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” said Bradey, and his jaw was set like a bulldog’s. “You’ll all pay for this. I’ll break the crowd of you. But I’m through talking.”

Jarrett saw Pedro’s face peering through the slide of the kitchen. He leaped through the door and caught the cook by the throat. When Pedro stammered the little he knew Jarrett flung him into a corner and rushed out. They heard the fast drumming of hoofs as he urged his tired horse. It was not till morning that he reached the Two-Bar looking for a fresh mount, his face lined and old, but stamped with indomitable resolution. And, as he rode out, passing the Jordan cabin, hardly seeing it, hardly knowing where he rode, a girl’s voice called to him.

Bradey was not charged by Gorman with complicity in Jordan’s murder. He was convinced that Bradey only wanted the gun to protect Dave, now beyond protection. But Bradey was confident of acquittal on the charge of stealing cattle. Moore was dead. There were no proofs. And he faced the trial, coming in from bail liberty to it, surrounded by attorneys, believing that he held the favor of the court. His chief counsel was affable, calculating on shattering the witnesses who might try to swear to the identity of the steers.

As for the sheriff, Bradey sneered at him for a quixotic fool. He had lost his niece. He might have to render an accounting of her money, but he had plenty. And his lawyers would crash the evidence of the fool she had married when he attempted to identify the steers.

At last Gorman was called to the stand. There were many present who believed that he had meant well, but overshot the mark. That Bradey might be guilty, but that proof of guilt was another matter. One steer was too like another. There were others who awaited his testimony with the quiet confidence of those who know a result beforehand. Among these the men of the posse, who had had their demonstration at the Two-Bar the day after the fight, the doctor and the commissioner, the last a trifle uneasy, feeling that he had been tricked into appearance, but glad to be on the windy side of the law.

“Sheriff,” asked the district attorney, “what was the important discovery with which you became acquainted shortly before the alleged theft of these steers?”

“I object,” said the pompous counsel for Bradey. “Irrelevant.”

“I shall place this testimony—or corroboration of it in the shape of certain copies of the Rural New Yorker, in evidence,” said the district attorney, “if your honor please, after the jury has inspected them.”

“‘You may proceed,” said the judge. “I reserve ruling.”

“I found,” said Gorman, “an article in a farm paper. It had illustrations with the text. It stated that a cow’s muzzle was marked with wrinkles and that no two cows were alike. It showed prints that had bin taken, the same as finger prints are taken and it stated that positive identification could be so made.”

“Is this a copy of the paper?”

“It is.”

“I have several copies here which I wish to submit as evidence, if your honor please.”

They rustled among the jury. The eminent counsel crossed to the district attorney.

“Lemme see one,” he said brusquely.

“With pleasure.” The lawyer shared it with Bradey and his face lost its jauntiness.

“What next, sheriff?”

“I submitted it to Doctor Mason for his scientific approval. Then I took prints of twenty steers belongin’ to Mr. Jarrett. We set ’em out in a likely place, believin’ that they might be taken a fancy to by King Bradey.”

“Why did you think King Bradey might take them?”

“’Count of a grudge he had agen Bud Jarrett for interferin’ with his men when they tried to drive Mrs. Jordan off her place.”

“I object.” The eminent counsel was on his feet, protesting indignantly.

“Sustained.”

“How did you get these prints?”

“Same as we finger-print criminals. We roped an’ threw the steers, tied ’em an’ then I ran a printin’ ink roller over ’em an’ took impressions.”

“Are these the impressions?”

“They are.”

“In evidence, if you please, Mr. Clerk.”

“They are all different?”

“They are.”

“And this second set corresponds with them?”

“They do.”

“When did you make these?”

“Day after we got the steers back.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Erbout twenty.”

"Ever make any other experiments?”

“Several of them. The first was at the Peerless Dairy, in Vacada. Doctor Mason was with me an’ the land commissioner.”

“That will do for the present, sheriff. I have here many records from ranches and dairies where the process has been repeatedly proven. It is scientifically accurate, as infallible as finger printing. Take the witness.”

The eminent counsel did not care to take the witness. But he endeavored to discredit the new method. The jury did not accept his arguments.

“Gorman,” said Doctor Mason when the prisoner was remanded into the custody of the sheriff, pending transport to the State penitentiary, “what are you going to do now? How about a holiday?”

“After I’ve handed Bradey over, I don’t mind if I do. First, I aim to retire.”

“If you try to you’ll make the most popular man in the county the most unpopular. The governor won’t accept it. Man, you’re famous! You’re headlining the press of the country.”

“Shucks! What are you drivin’ at, doc?”

“Can’t Pete run your office for a few days?”

“He might. I dunno. Pete’s mind ain’t strictly on bisness. He’s got an idea he can persuade Mrs. Jordan to let him play elephant for her kids after a bit, as a permanent job. But he might. Why?”

“Because I know where we can get some Eastern brook trout. Creek’s been stocked for four years and I don’t believe it’s fished once a year.”

“Doc, you’re on! Soon as I get back, let’s go a-fishin’.”

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 Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the 
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